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THE 
VILLAGE LAWYER 

BY 

ARTHUR LEWIS TUBES 







^ PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
PHILADELPHIA 



SHOEMAKER'S 

B£ST SELECTIONS 

For Re^diii|(s mid Redto^ttont 



No*. I to 27 Now 

Mkcb 0«aib«t* • » • 90 
€^tli •• .. •• • . . St 

Teachers, Readers, Students, and all persons who 
have had occasion to use books of this kind, concede 
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from such American authors as Longfellow, Holmes, 
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lish authors are also represented, as well as the 
leading French and German writers. 

This series was formerly called "The Elocution- 
ist's Annual," the first seventeen numbers being pub- 
lished under that title. 

While the primary purpose of these books is to 
dupply the wants of the public reader and elocution- 
ist, nowhere else can be found such an attractive col- 
lection of interesting short stories for home reading. 

Sold by all booksellers and newsdealers, or mailed 
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The Penn Publishing Company 

226 5. nth Street, Philadelphia 



The 
Village Lawyer 

A Comedy Drama in Four Acts 

BY 

Arthur Lewis Tubbs 

Author of "Farm Folks," "Home Ties," "The Fruit of 
His Folly," "The Finger of Scorn," etc. 




PHILADELPHIA 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1914 



/>^ /-. '/ 



Copyright 1914 by The Penn Publishing Company 



FEB -4 1914 



The Village Lawyer 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Set^i Barrett the lawyer. 

David Con ANT a political '^ boss'' 

James Ferguson his right hand man. 

Alan Spencer a su??imer boarder. 

Sam Dill a much married man. 

Dan Bright learning to be a lawyer. 

Helen Conant David's daughter. 

Isabel Underwood from gay Broadway. 

Angie Barrett sister of Seth. 

Mrs. Dill not afraid to speak her mind. 

Lobelia a household factotum. 

Time of Playing. — About two hours and a half. 



SYNOPSIS 



Act I. — Seth Barrett's office, pn an afternoon in August. 

Love and poHtics. f 

Act n. — Same as Act I, about a week later. The letters. 
Act in. — Home of Seth Barrett, the next evening. The 

heart of a woman. 
Act IV. — Same as Acts I and II, the following day. The 

winning hand. 



NOTICE TO PROFESSIONALS 

This play is published for the free use of amateurs only. Professional 
actors or companies wishing to produce it in any form or under any 
title are forbidden to do so without the consent of the author, who 
may be addressed in care of the publishers. 



STORY OF THE PLAY 

Seth Barrett, a young lawyer, is running for district attorney 
against David Conant, a political '* boss " of long stand- 
ing. Conant is incensed at Seth's refusal to withdraw 
his name from the ticket. Being unscrupulous and un- 
relenting toward those who thwart his purpose, he 
commands Seth, who is desperately in love with his 
daughter, Helen, to cease paying his attentions to her. 
Seth, early in his college career, sowed a few wild oats 
and became acquainted with gay Broadway and its 
habitu6s. He soon awoke to the folly of it all and quite 
forgets the incidents associated with that period. In 
some way, however, Conant learns of this, and ne- 
gotiates with an actress, who knew Seth at this time, in 
an attempt to make public a greatly magnified account 
of Seth's past, in order to injure him politically. But 
despite Conant' s iron will and underhanded methods, 
love finds a way. Seth is not easily frightened, is firm 
in his purpose, and plays the game so fairly that Co- 
nant becomes ashamed of his actions and relents. Inter- 
woven with the stormy courtship of the village lawyer, 
a quieter, but none the less earnest, romance runs its 
course. 



COSTUMES AND CHARACTERISTICS 

Seth Barrett. A good-looking, manly young country 
lawyer, about twenty-eight or thirty, of a jovial, easy- 
going disposition, but with plenty of vim and spirit. 
Well educated and mentally keen and sharp-witted. 
Not easily ruffled or frightened, but still whole-hearted 
and sympathetic. He wears a plain, neat summer 
business suit ; may be the same throughout, or a light 
suit in the first, second and fourth acts and a dark one 
in the third. 

David Conant. Typical rural political leader and boss, 
about fifty years of age ; short, stockily built ; sharp 
eyes, stern countenance ; severe, unscrupulous and un- 
relenting toward those who cross his will. Wears plain 
business suit. 

James Ferguson. Might be tall and thin, in contrast to 
Conant, of about the same age. A cringing sycophant, 
occasionally daring to " speak up," but evidently 
afraid of Conant, and in his political power. Plain 
summer suit. 

Alan Spencer. Dapper young city fellow, of about 
twenty-three or thereabouts ; handsome, well dressed 
in neatly fitting summer clothes, with rather fancy 
shirts and neckties, but all in good taste. He is of the 
somewhat ''sporty," flashy type, accustomed to the 
lights and the life of the big city, but by no means fast 
or offensive. Should be in the good will of the au- 
dience. 

Sam Dill. Little old man, much devoted to his domineer- 
ing wife, and willing to bear all she puts upon him for 
the sake of an occasional smile. He is about sixty, 
with thin gray hair, beard or chin whiskers. Comic 
rural type, without being a caricature. Wears plain, 
somewhat shabby and none too tidy suit. May be a 
little better dressed in Act III. 

Dan Bright. Smart boy of fourteen or fifteen, with all of 
a real boy's fondness for exciting reading and alhleiic 
sport. Active, a bit " fresh," but the kind of youngster 
one likes. Neat suit, showing something of rough 
usage. 



PROPERTIES 



Helen Conant. Refined, attractive girl of about nineteen, 
rather delicate and timid, showing the effect of severe 
home discipHne, but withal sweet and winsome. Pretty 
summer costumes, not elaborate. 

Isabel Underwood. Tall, stately young woman, some- 
what past the point of girlhood ; handsome, of a rather 
bold and conspicuous type of beauty, but not without 
a suggestion of gentleness and refinement. Evidently 
the victim of influences and surroundings not conducive 
to the development of the finer qualities. She wears 
two or three different costumes, all rather elaborate and 
fancy, with showy hats, flowers, some jewelry, parasol, 
hand-bag, etc. 

Angie Barrett. Ingenue character 3 pretty, vivacious girl 
of seventeen or eighteen. She wears simple but at- 
tractive and becoming light summer costumes, hat, etc. 

Mrs. Dill. Character part. Middle-aged woman of vil- 
lage gossip variety ; talks very fast, has quick, ener- 
getic movements. Somewhat '' bossy " and domineer- 
ing, but not disagreeably so. For comic effect may 
be considerably larger than her husband — or vice versa, 
he being much the larger, making her authority over 
him the more funny by contrast. She is plainly dressed, 
in first act in ordinary calico or gingham. Acts II and 
IV, much the same. Act III, a better dress, with a 
touch of color. Small hat, with feather ; comical efl'ect. 

Lobelia. Colored character part. Stout, "squatty" 
figure; the jovial, lovable "old mammy" type. Cal- 
ico dress, apron, etc., as appropriate to time and scene. 



PROPERTIES 

Law books. Cheap, paper-covered dime novel. Calendar, 
several legal posters and notices on wall. Papers, legal 
documents, etc., on desk and in drawers. Telephone. 
Waste paper basket with contents. Pieces of money. 
Cigars. Postage stamps. Small bundle of letters, 
stamped, addressed and opened, tied together with 
string or ribbon ; several other letters similar in size 
and appearance, also stamped and addressed, but un- 
opened. Dining-table, white cloth, red spread, few 
dishes. Broom. Fancy work. Palm leaf fan. Dia- 
mond engagement ring. Several grocery store packages. 
6 



SCENE PLOTS 

Acts I, II, and IV 







SCENE. — Seth Barrett's Law Office. Entrances r, 
and L. Window in flat, c. Desk near window, and 
bookcases up r. and l., where convenient. Chairs on 
both sides of desk, and in other parts of stage. 




Act III. Combined dining and living room in home of 
Seth Barrett. Well furnished, with easy chairs, couch, 
etc. A dining-room table l. c. Entrances r. and l. 



The Village Lawyer 



ACT I 

SCENE.— /y^/;? roomy the law office of Seth Barrett. 
Door to street ^., to afiother room l. / window in flat. 
Desk up c, near window ; large easy chair near it, 
several other chairs about stage ; law books on desk and 
shelf or bookcase; calendar, legal notices, etc., on 
wall; the typical furnishings of young lawyer' s office 
in country town. Discover Dan Bright seated in easy 
chair, with feet on table, asleep. On his lap is a large 
law book, inside of which is a dime novel. Door and 
window are open. After pause enter Mrs. Dill, r. ; 
she stands a moment regarding Dan. 

Mrs. D. Say ! Wake up. ( Goes and rouses Dan, notic- 
ing dime novel?) You lazy thing, why don't you wake 
up 'n* tend t* business ? 

Dan {waking, sleepily). Huh? What? {Recognizes 
Mrs. D.) Oh, how do. Mis' Dill? Where'd you 
come from? {Rises, closing book with novel inside.) 

Mrs. D. What difference does it make where I come from ? 
What I want t' know is, where' s Seth ? 1 want t' see 
him. 

Dan. You mean Mr. Barrett ? 

Mrs. D. I mean Seth Barrett, that's who I mean. Land, 
T guess you needn't think I'm goin' t' start in callin' 
him ''Mister," if he is a lawyer 'n' runnin' for office. 
I guess I've known Seth Barrett all his life, sence he was 
a baby, 'n' his folks b'fore him, 'n' I ain't goin' t' 
start in callin' him " Mister " at this late day. Where 
is he? 

Dan. I d' know, exactly. Went down the street a while 
ago. Said he'd be back in half an hour. More 'n that 
now. 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Mrs. D. 'N' he left you t' run things, I suppose ? A 
pretty one you be, — read'n' dime novels. Oh, I saw 
it. Think you'll learn t' be a lawyer read'n' that 
trash ? 

Dan. Well, law's too dry. Have t' take it in small doses, 
'r it'd choke me. Anything I can do for y', Mis' Dill? 

Mrs. D. You? The idee! I guess they ain't. I want t' 
see "Mister" Barrett — on legal business. (^To herself , 
with determination?) I've stood it jest as long 's I'm 
goin' to. 

Dan. Well, then set down to it. {Places chair r. c.) 
Here's a chair. 

Mrs. D. Don't you get impudent, young man. I'll tell 
Seth Barrett I saw you read'n' that dime novel. 

{She sits.) 

Dan. 'Tain't a dime novel — only cost a nickel. Besides, 
he wouldn't care. Reads 'em himself. 

Mrs. D. Likely story, that is. A lawyer read'n' dime 
novels ! 

Dan. Sure. He kep' mine the other day when I wanted 
it. Said it was great. (Shows her novel.') Look — 
*' Perfidious Pete ; or, the Bandit Band of Bloody 
Gulch." Don't that sound exciting? 

Mrs. D. It sounds scandalous, for a boy like you t' be 
storin' his mind up with. Seth Barrett ought t' have 
more sense. I guess if the Democrat c'mmittee knew 
he reads that trash ! Goin' t' run for District Attorney, 
I hear ? 

Dan. Well, if he does he'll get 'lected, spite o' ''Perfidi- 
ous Pete," I'll bet. 

Mrs. D. Huh ! I guess "Perfidious Pete" won't haves* 
much t' say about it as Dave Conant will. Of course, 
I'd like t' see Seth get it, — but Dave Conant ! He's 
lord of all he surveys around here, 'n' when it comes t* 
politics — well, y' might as well try t' beat — I d' know 
what — 's him. {Pises, restlessly.) But I can't 
hang around here all day. I come on business, 'n' I 
should think he'd ought t' be here t' tend to it. 

Dan. Sure there's nothing I can do. Mis' Dill ? 

Mrs. D. I guess not ; not unless you grant divorces. 

Dan. Oh ! You want another divorce — from y'rhusban' ? 

Mrs. D. Land, who would I want it from ? Think I want 

lO 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



a divorce from the town pump ? You'd make a pretty 
lawyer, you would. As for *' another," what do y' 
mean by that? Ain't had one yet; but I've made up 
my mind to get one now. I've stood his shiftlessness as 
long 's I'm goin' t'. 

(Angie Barrett appears at window ^ putting head in.) 

Angie. Good-morning. How d' do, Mrs. Dill? Hello, 

Dan. Seth in ? 
Dan. Nope. Out. Be back in a minute. Come on in. 
Angie. All right, I will. {Disappears.) 
Mrs. D. Pretty gay piece, if she is his sister. Guess he 

ain't none too strict with her. 

{Enter Angie, r.) 

Angie. Why, Mrs. Dill, I'm surprised to see you here — in 

a lawyer's office. No legal business, I hope ? 
Mrs. D. Well, if it is, that's my business, ain't it ? 
Angie. Why, of course. Excuse me. I didn't mean to 

pry into it. I was only joking. 
Mrs. D. Well, I guess a divorce ain't no joking matter. 

Oh, yes, you might 's well know — it ain't no secret, 'n' 

I'd jest as soon it be told, seein' it's come to it. I've 

stood it jest as long 's I'm goin' t'. Me 'n' Sam's got 

t' part. 
Angie. Oh, Mrs. Dill, I'm sorry to hear that. I always 

thought Mr. Dill such a nice man. 
Mrs. D. Oh, you did ! Well, bein' nice don't buy bread 

'n' butter 'n' pay taxes. I'd ruther a man 'd have some 

gumption 'n t' jest be '' nice." 
Angie. Why — yes ; but— really, don't you think it could 

be patched up 

Mrs. D. No, I don't. It's be'n patched 'n' patched, till 

they ain't room for another patch. No, I've made 

up my mind 'n' I mean t' have it. I've stood it long 

enough. 
Dan. Don't blame y*, Mis' Dill. A man as lazy as your 

husband is 

Mrs. D. Well, I guess it ain't your place t' criticize him, a 

little upstart like you. Huh ! You'd better look t' 

home. 
Dan. Whew ! 

II 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Angis. There, Dan, now will you be good? But I'll be 
going, and stop on my way back. I'm just going down 
to the post-office. 

Mrs. D. S'pose you expect a letter from that city feller. 

Angie. M'm — well, if I do, it'll be my letter, so you 
needn't worry about it. 

(^Laughs mischievously and exits R.) 

Mrs. D. If she was my girl, I'd give her a good spankin'. 
Such impudence. {She goes up to window, looks out 
totuard u Dan is r., by door.') I declare, here comes 
Dave Conant. Looks like a thunder-cloud, too. I 
wonder what's up now. 

Dan. Oh, I suppose something ain't gone t' suit him. If 
y' cross y'r leg the ways he don't think y* ought to, he 
gets on his ear. S'pose he's heard about Mr. Barrett's 
running for District Attorney. 

Mrs. D. Mebbe that's it. Well, I guess he can't scare 
Seth Barrett. 

Dan. You bet he can't. He'll try it, though. 

(David Co'i^K^i: passes window ; glances in, then enters^.) 

David {to Dan). Where's your boss ? 

Dan. You mean Mr. Barrett ? 

David. Of course I mean Mr. Barrett. Who else should 
I mean ? Where is he ? 

Dan. I d' know, Mr. Conant, jest exactly. He went up 
the street. Be back soon, I guess. 

David. Well, I want to see him. {Notices Mrs.!}.) Oh, 
good-afternoon, Mrs. Dill. Patronizing the law nowa- 
days ? 

Mrs. D. {seated I., c). Mebbe. Be you? 

David. Well, if I am, that's my business. 

Mrs. D. And if I am, that's my business, Dave Conant. 
Guess I've got jest as much right here as you have. 
{He glares at her.) Oh, you needn't think you can 
scare me, if you be the richest man in the county 'n' 
think you own everybuddy around here jest b'cause you 
got a little money. Good land, I knew you when you 
didn't have a cent — 'n* I d' know's you would have 
now 'f you'd been very p'tic'lar how you got it. 

David. Say, see here, my fine woman, you'd better be 

12 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



careful how you let your tongue run. Even a prover- 
bial gossip may go too far. 

Mrs. D. So? Well, if I'ln *' proverbial," let me give you 
a proverb : " Give a rascal rope enough 'n' he'll hang 
himself." That's a good one for you t' think over, I 
reckon. 

David. Pooh ! Even an insult from you isn't worth 
noticing. (T**:? Dan.) I'll be back. (^Goes -r.) 

Dan. All right, Mr. Conant. I'll tell him you was here. 

(David, r., is about to exitj when he meets Seth Barrett, 
who enters breezily. David comes back to r. c. ; Seth 
pauses c.) 

Seth. Why, how d' you do, 'squire ? Glad to see you. 
And Mrs. Dill, too. My, but I am honored. (To 
David.) Won't you sit down ? 

David. No, thanks. Haven't time. Can say what I have 
to say standing, just as well. Only I wish to speak to 
you in private — (glancing meanifigly at Mrs. D.) if it 
is convenient ? 

Mrs. D. (fiot stirrifig). I was here first. " First come, 
first served." That's another good proverb. 

David. But, madam, I have important business. 

Mrs. D. Well, good land, don't you s'pose I can have im- 
portant business, too? I s'pose yours is politics. 
You've heard Seth Barrett is goin' t' run for District 
Attorney on the Democratic ticket, 'n* you've come t' 
see 'f you can't scare him out of it — or buy him off. 
Don't you let him do it, Seth. 

David. Madam 

Seth. Why, Mrs. Dill, I 



Mrs. D. Don't <' Madam" me, nor '^ Mrs. Dill" me, 
either. I may be a woman, but I know a thing 'r two, 
and one of 'em is, that some men think they can run 
the universe, but sooner 'r later they get their come- 
uppance. I come here t' see you on legal business, 
Mr. Barrett, *n' — I want t' speak t' you in private — 
(with a defiant look at David) '' if it is convenient." 

(David grunts^ angrily, turning away in disgust. Seth 
bows politely.') 

Seth. Certainly, Mrs. Dill. I will ask the 'squire to wait. 
I shall be pleased to have you as a client. 

13 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Mrs. D. Well, I d' know's I'm a client, exactly, but I 

want {Looks at David again, meajiingly.') I'll 

tell you what, when we are alone. 
David. Of course, if I am intruding {Goes to r.) 

I'll call back in a few minutes, Mr. Barrett. Perhaps 

by that time you will be at liberty. 
Mrs. D. {rising^ You needn't hurry yourself. What 

I've got t' say'll take more'n a few minutes. 

(David smiles superciliously and exits r.) 

Dan. Gee ! You talked right up t' him, didn't y' ? 

Mrs. D. Of course I did. He scared his poor, meek little 
wife t' death, 'n' is makin' life miserable for that 
daughter of his — 'n' tryin' t' run everybuddy he comes 
to — but he needn't think I'm afraid of him. Thank 

goodness, I ain't his wife. But if 1 was By the 

way, Seth {looking at Dan), I said *' alone," y' know. 

Seth. Certainly, Mrs. Dill. {To Dan.) Dan, you can 
go for a while. Be back in half an hour. 

Dan {getting hat and going r.). All right, Mr. Barrett. 
{Mischievously, as he gla?ices at Mrs. D.) I'll go 
down to the store *n' g't that new dime novel we was 
talkin' about — **The Murders in the Morgue; or, the 
Midnight Massacre " 

{Exit, R.) 

Mrs. D. My, but that boy's a piece. Says you read them 
dime novels. I should think a lawyer 

Seth. Ho ! 1 just glanced at one, one day, and he caught 
me at it. Ever since then he accuses me of reading 
them. Won't you be seated again, Mrs, Dill, and tell 
me what I can do for you ? 

Mrs. D. Thanks. (5//^$-.) I want a divorce. I've stood 
it jest's long as I'm a-goin' t*. He's the laziest, 
shifflesest thing 't ever lived, 'n' I'm tired of it. 

Seth. What — again, Mrs. Dill ? You know, this is about 
the seventh or eighth time we have talked this matter 
over. Don't you think 

Mrs. D. I don't think, I know — that I mean it this time. 
I know you've patched it up every time b'fore, 'n' 
made me overlook it 'n' forgive him, but this time he's 
gone too far. I ain't goin* t' put up with it no longer, 
and that's all they is about it. 

14 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Seth {seated r. c, she c. He regards her with patient 
good humor). M'm — what has he done now? 

Mrs. D. It ain't s* much what he's done, it's what he 
don't do. I want that divorce, 'n' I mean t' have 
it. If you won't git it for me, I guess they's other 
lawyers 

Seth. But you will have to tell me the circumstances, 
Mrs. Dill, or how can I proceed ? We have to have 
grounds, you know^ — and evidence. What has Sam 
done to make you think you are entitled to a divorce 
from him ? 

Mrs. D. Entitled ? I guess I'm entitled to it, fast enough. 
He jest sets around 'n* smokes his pipe, 'r whittles, 'n* 
won't hardly get a pail o' water 'r bring in an armful 
o' wood when I tell him to 

Seth. M'm — did you ever try asking, instead of telling, 
Mrs. Dill ? 

Mrs. D. Huh ! I guess you needn't think I'm goin' t' 
coax Sam Dill t' do anything. Don't I keep boarders, 
'n* do sewin' when I have time, 'n' work my fingers to 
the bone, 'n' then — you expect me t* coax. I'd like t' 
see m'self ! If I coax, it'll be with the broom-handle or 
the roll in' pin. 

Seth. That's just it, Mrs. Dill. You pursue the wrong 
tactics. Many a man can be persuaded when he can't 
be driven. 

Mrs. D. Not Sam Dill. 'T any rate, I ain't the coaxin' 
kind. No, sir; I'm sick 'n' tired of it, 'n' I've stood 
it jest as long as I mean to. I want that divorce, 
'n' 

Seth. On what grounds ? Incompatibility of temper ? 

Mrs. D. No, none of y'r high-soundin' terms — ^jest plain 
shiftlessness 'n' lack of gumption. How much'U it 
cost? 

Seth. M'm — I can't say just now, Mrs. Dill. Will you 
require alimony? 

Mrs. D. Good land, can't you handle the case alone? 

Seth. Why, yes, I Of course. I meant will you 

require Sam to pay you so much a week ? 

Mrs. D. Oh ! I thought you meant he was some other 
lawyer. As for that, I guess it's a lot I'd get out o' 
Sara Dill. No, all I want's t' get rid of him, 'n' thank- 
ful for that. (Rises, goes toward r., looks off.) 

15 



TEE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Good land, here he comes now ! I wonder what he 

wants. 
Seth (rising, looking off). Who, — Sam? So it is. (^Mo- 
tions L.) Suppose you go in there, Mrs. Dill, while 

I talk to him a minute 

Mrs. D. What ! Me hide from Sam Dill ? I guess I ain't 

afraid t' face him any time 

Seth. No, of course not; but it might be better. You 

see, if he knew you were applying for a divorce 

Why- 

Mrs. D. Well, of course I don't want him t' know jest 

yet. I want t' spring it on him as a su' prise. (^Goes 

L.) But you needn't try t' patch it up, 'cause it can't 

be done this time. 
Seth. Oh, no, certainly not ; I understand that perfectly. 
Mrs. D. No; I've stood it jest as long 's I'm goin' t', 

'n' 

(^Exit L., looking back, just as Sam Dill enters R.) 

Seth. Why, hello, Sam. How are you ? 

Sam. Miserable, thank y', Mr. Barrett. 

Seth. Oh, no ; not " Mister " Barrett. Just Seth, Sam. 

Sam. Sure. Didn't know but you'd want the " Mister," 
now you're sett'n' up t' run f'r politics. 'G'inst 
Dave Conant, too. Some grit, I call it. Hope y' 
beat him, 'f he is a Republican. Al'ays be'n one 
m'self, but I'd like t' see Dave Conant licked all 
holler. 

Seth. Well, that's what we're going to try to do, Sam. 
Pretty tough proposition though, I guess. But how's 
everything up to the house, Sam ? 

Sam. My house — er — I mean, ^' her " house ? {SitSy l. c.) 

%^1-a. (Jaughifig). Well, yes, — whose ever house it is. Any 
boarders now ? 

Sam. Couple. Expect that feller from the city this week 
— young Spencer. Dude like, y' know, 't was here 
last summer. Shined up t' your Angle, y' know. 
That one. 

Seth. Oh, yes; nice sort of chap, I thought, though a 
little fast. How's your wife, Sam ? Well ? 

Sam. Sure. Wouldn't nothin' dare make her sick, 'nless 
she said it could. Say, Seth, that's — wal, that's kind 
o* what I dropped in t' see y' about — her. We don't 
i6 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



seem t' hitch it up very well t'gether. Can't do 
nothin' t* please, no matter how hard I try. 

Seth. Do you try, Sara ? 

Sam. Try ! Should say I do. Make a reg'lar hired girl 
out o' m'self — washin' dishes 'n' all — reg'lar woman's 
work — 'n' don't git no thanks for it. 

Seth. Well, you get a good home — your food, and so 
forth. Remember that, Sam. 

Sam. Yes, but 'tain'tthat, though, Seth. I'm discouraged. 
'Tain't no good way t'- hve. I married Jane f r love, 
'n' I'd love her *s much as I ever did,, if she'd let me. 
Thought she loved me too, but — {very much affected, 
wiping eyes) somethin's killed it. Ain't got nothin' t' 
live for now. What I want, Seth, is t' have y' draw 
up my will, leavin* everything t' her. O' course I 
ain't got nothin', but what they is I want her t' have. 

Seth. Why, Sam, aren't you well ? 

Sam. Yes, well enough, fur's that goes, 'xcept the lumbago 
'n' a few little things like that. But m' heart's affected 
— breakin' life. 

(Wipes eyes. Mrs. D. looks out ^..^ surprised, much ifiter- 
ested, but inclined to be disdainful.) 

Seth. Why, Sam, do you take it that hard ? But don't 
worry ; if anything happened to you, she'd get it all, 
seeing you have no heirs. But I hope it won't come to 
that, Sam. 

Sam (risijig). Well, you never c'n tell. Sometimes I feel 
like hangin' m'self to a rafter in the wood-shed. D' 
know but I will some day. Lost Jane's love, so they 
ain't nothin* t' live for. 

{Enter Mrs. D., l., much perturbed ; almost in tears.) 

Seth {pretending not to see her). M'm — don't you think 

you could tell her how you feel ? 
Sam. No — no, that wouldn't do. Told her enough tim.es. 

Her love's dead, 'n' that's the end of it. {Going.) 

Don't be s'prised t' hear there's an end o' me, Seth, 

any time. 
Seth. Now, Sam, I hope you won't go and do anything 

desperate. 
Sam. That's the way I feel. Nothin' t' live for. 

17 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



(^He is about to exit r., when Mrs. D. reveals herself , run- 
ning over to him.) 

Mrs. D. {brokenly). Oh, — Sam ! 

Sam {looking at her, pretendi?ig to be very much surprised). 
Jane ! You here ? Away ! All is over between us. 
You have broke my heart. 

Mrs. D. {pleadingly). Oh, Sam, I didn't know you felt 
that v/ay about it. {Sobs.) Oh, dear, I've mis- 
judged you, 'n' never knew it. Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! 

Sam. Yes, you've misjudged me. {Shakes his head 
sadly.) 'N' oh, how I loved y' ! 

Mrs. D. " Did," Sam ? Don't say it's all dead ! Don't, 
Sam, 'r it'll kill me. 

Sam. Then we'll die t'gether, Jane, like they do in books. 

Mrs. D. Oh, Sam ! Sam, f rgive me. I'll never speak 
a cross word to y' agin. I didn't know, Sam; I didn't 
realize how y' loved me. Oh, Sam ! 'N' I love you 
too, Sam, — I love y' ! 

Sam {relenting, but pretending to hesitate). Be — be y' sure, 
Jane ? Y' mean it this time ? 

Mrs. D. Y-yes, Sam, I mean it. 

Sam. Then I'll — I'll f rgive y' — ^jest this once. 

Mrs. D. Oh, Sam ! 

{He opens his arms, she sinks into them and buries her face 
on his shoulder. He looks at Seth, wi?iking. Seth, 
who is L. c, smiles back. They are c, now start to 
go out R.) 

Seth. M'm — by the way, Mrs. Dill, what about that — er 
— that little matter of business you came to see me 
about ? 

Mrs. D. {pausing r.). Business? What Oh, yes 

— you mean that back board bill. Wal, I guess 1 
won't take it up jest now, thanks. Mebbe they'll pay. 
Come on, Sammy dear. 

{Holds out her hand to hi?n affectionately ; then glares at 
Seth, frowning and shaki?ig her head.) 

Sam {following her). All right, lovey lamb. {Exit Mrs. 
D., R. ; Sam lingers, speaking slyly to Seth, 7iodding 
head toward l.) Knew she was in there the hull time 
— seen her go in. 

i8 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



(^Exit R., chtickling. Seth looks after them, laughing. 
Angie runs in R., looking back.) 

Angie. Guess they've made up again, haven't they? 
Aren't they the limit ? 

{She has a letter which is opened. ) 

Seth. Well, that's the way it goes, Angie. That's what it 
means to get married. But 1 suppose it's worth while 
quarreling, just for the fun of making up. 

Angie. I guess it would be better to be in a make-up 
mood all the time, without the quarreling. Oh, Seth, 
he's coming back ! (Shows letter.') 

Seth. Of course there's only one '<he" — Alan Spencer. 
Yes, I had heard. 

Angie. I suppose Mrs. Dill told you. He's going to board 
there again. Yes, I just got a letter from him. He's 
coming to-morrow. Oh, Seth, I'm so excited — so 
happy ! 

Seth. Be careful, little sister. Don't get carried away 
witli tliat handsome chap, just because he has charm- 
ing manners and says pretty things to you. Don't be- 
gin to take it too seriously. How do you know but 
what he has another girl in the city — perhaps several of 
them ? 

Angie. Oh, Seth, I'm sure he isn't that kind. He is such 
a gentleman, and writes such lovely letters. 

Seth. Dear me, I'm afraid I haven't been doing my duty 
as a big brother. {They are c. / he now puts his arm 
about her affectionately.) You know I want you to be 
happy, Angie dear ; and that's just it. I am older 
than you and have seen more of the world. I have 
been to the big city, and had what they call '' experi- 
ences " — a few of them — and I know what these city 
young men are and how they often look upon innocent 
little country girls like you as easy and lawful prey. 

Angie. But, Seth — not Alan — I am sure 

Seth. No, my dear, you are not sure — yet. I want you 
to wait until you are, that's all. Alan Spencer may 
be one of the finest fellows in the world, and entirely 
worthy of you — I hope he is — but we must be a little 
wary, you know, until v/e find out. We must prove 

19 



TEE VILLAGE LAWYER 



him, first, and then — why, then it will come out all 
right. 

(^He kisses her tenderly ; she smiles up at him cojifidingly 
and starts to go, just as Dan runs in R.) 

Dan. Say, here comes Mr. Conant back. 

(Seth goes K., meets David, who enters r. ; he nods care- 
lessly to Angie, who replies as she goes out r., lookijig 
back at Seth with a S7nile, Dan is up by desk^ Seth 
afid David down c.) 

Seth. Good-morning again, 'squire. Won't you sit 
down ? 

David. No, thanks. What's this I hear, Barrett, about 
your accepting the nomination for District Attorney on 
the Democratic ticket ? Is it true ? 

Seth. Guess it is, 'squire. 

David. Didn't you know I was running for District 
Attorney ? 

Seth. Why, yes, of course. Some honor to have such an 
opponent, isn't it ? I couldn't run against a better — 
a stronger man. 

David. I suppose I ought to say " Thank you " to that, 
even though you changed " better " to " stronger," but 
instead I'm going to tell you that you will have cause to 
be thankful to me if you take my advice and refuse the 
nomination. 

Seth. You are very kind, but — really, I don't think I need 
advice on that subject. Thought it over pretty seriously 
and finally taken my own advice that it's the thing to 
do, I haven't had a hankering for politics, but this 
time — well, I feel the call. 

David. So! That's it, is it? A "call" to take up the 
fight against me, I suppose — considering me as one 
who ought to be put down ? Very well. But let me 
tell you, young man, you are taking a pretty big proposi- 
tion on your hands. I'm not an opponent you will find 
it easy to get the best of. I guess you know that. 

Seth. I reckon I do, 'squire. That makes it all the more 
interesting, doesn't it ? I shouldn't care to run against 
one who wasn't worth beating. If I beat you, it'll be 
all the more to my credit. 
20 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



David {laughing sarcastically). Ha ! Maybe it will. 
But you aren't going to beat me. Why, do you sup- 
pose, after all my experience in politics and — well, the 
hold I have on affairs in this county — I'm going to let 
a little — a — well, a novice like you — step in and beat 
me ? Not much. Ha ! Well, I guess not ! 

Seth. Sure you're not, 'squire — if you can help it. A 
" little — m'm — well, ' novice,' " — like me, hasn't much 
chance, I'll admit. But I'm going to take that chance, 
and taking it I'm going to do my best to come out 
ahead. Surely you can't blame me for that. "All's 
fair in love and war " — or politics, which amounts to 
the same thing sometimes — you know. But I don't 
want any hard feelings. That isn't my nature. I 
want to go about this thing fair and square and amica- 
bly. Can't it be done ? 

David. No, it can't. If you run against me, it's war, and 
nothing else. And I'll give you fair warning, it'll be 
war to the finish and you'll get the worst of it. What's 
more, you may consider that — well, there's something 
else I want to speak to you about. Of course, if you 
go in against me in this race, why, naturally, you can't 
expect me to permit you to — to have anything more to 
do with my daughter. This settles it between you and 
her. Some time ago you asked me to give my consent, 
but — I reckon you know what my answer is now. 

Seth. But, 'squire, you wouldn't let politics influence you 
in a matter like that ! Why, that wouldn't be fair. 
You know how it is between Helen and me — that she 
has accepted me, and — and that all we want now is 
your consent. I can support her — I — of course, I 
know I'm not half good enough for her — no man is — 
but — you wouldn't be so unjust as that, 'squire, would 
you? 

David. That's my decision, and I stick to it. (^Goes r.) 
I guess there's no more to be said. You've made up 
your mind, so have I. Give up this fight or give up 
my daughter. You have your choice. 

Seth. I — why, I can't give up the *' fight," as you call it, 
now, 'squire. It wouldn't be right. I have promised 
to enter the field and do my utmost to win. I must 
stick to it now, whatever comes. But — surely you see 
the injustice of letting a fair and square contest in 

21 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



politics, between two men who have always been of 
different parties, influence you in a personal matter like 
this — especially when Helen and 1 love each other and 
— I know you don't mean it. You can't. 
David. Don't talk to me about "injustice," young man. 
I know my business and run my own affairs. I've told 
you what's what, and that's all there is to it. 

(^He is about to go out, but Seth, now asserting hifnse/f 
ivith dignity, goes and steps in front of him, so he is 
compelled to stay.) 

Seth. No, this isn't the end of it. Don't deceive your- 
self. I'm not as easy as you think, perhaps. There's 
fighting blood in me, not only when it comes to the 
war of politics, but in the matter of love. I don't in- 
tend to give up this fight, and 1 don't intend to give 
up your daughter, either. 

David. I'd have you understand my daughter will do as I 
say. My word is law in my house, and it's a law as 
inflexible as any you have in your books. When I 
command, she obeys. I don't think there's any more 
to be said. Good-day. 

(Seth steps aside, dowficast, but with a determined air, 
a?id David exits r. Seth stands a moment looking 
after him, losing his confidence for an instant, then 
rousing himself, clenchi/ig his fist, tvith a close pressing 
of the lips. After a pause, Helen Con ant and Angie 
put their heads in window, unnoticed by Seth.) 

Angie (^looking r.). Is he gone? 

Seth (looking about, seeing them, delighted). Oh — hel-lo ! 

My, but how the sun is shining all of a sudden ! 

Come in, pretty sunbeams. 

{Goes to window, greeting them, then to door, as they enter. 
They look back to be sure David has disappeared.) 

Angie. Sure he's gone ? Helen was afraid to come in. 
Helen. No, I wasn't exactly afraid, but Oh, Seth ! 

(She is close to hiin, c. ; he takes her in his arms. Angie l. c.) 

Seth. Yes, dear, I know. It will come out all right. 
Helen. Oh, Seth, do you think so ? 

22 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Seth. Don't you worry. 

(About to kiss her, but she draws back, looking shyly at 
Angie.) 

Angie. Don't mind me. {Turfis away.) Love's blind, 
and so am I. 

(Seth about to kiss Helen.) 

Helen. But, Seth, dear — you mustn't. Father says 

He — he says that if you run against him, I must never 
speak to you again. And, oh, Seth, you know father ! 

Seth. Yes, dear, I know. He has just been telHng me all 
about it, and I told him — well, I told him a few things 
too. 

Helen (hopefully). Did you tell him you wouldn't run? 

Seth. No, dear, I couldn't tell him that. I shall run. 1 
have given my word and I must stick to it. It's a good 
cause, and I mean to win if there's such a thing possible 
— yes, even against your father. He has no right to 
let this thing come between you and me, and if he takes 
that attitude, why, we'll have to make the best of it, 
that's all. I can't give in. 

Angie. He's just bluffing, and I guess before I'd let that 

old Oh, excuse me, Helen, I forgot he was your 

father. But I don't care if he is — he has no right to 
separate you from the man you love. Love is a very 
sacred thing, and — and 

Helen. I know it is, and I wouldn't give up Seth for the 
whole world — no, I wouldn't, Seth ! — (he hugs her) but 
— but I can't hold out against father. I just couldn't. 

Seth. No, dear; but ''Love will find the way," you 
know. 

Angie. Sure it will. " Where there's a will " Maybe 

if you don't win, Seth, he'll 

Seth. Ho ! What a little comforter you are ! But I shall 
win — if I can — and if I do, what then ? (^To Helen.) 
Lose you ? Well, I guess not. Leave that to me. 

Helen. But, Seth, I — I'm afraid. I must obey father. 
If he tells me not to — not to see you — what shall I do ? 
I can't live if I don't — oh, Seth, I just can't ! — and if I 
do Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! 

(^Breaks down and weeps. Seth puis his arm about her, 
comforting her.) 

23 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Angie. My goodness, this is no place for me. ''Two's 
company, three's one too many." I'll be going, (r.) 
But don't give up. I wouldn't. If anything should 
come between me and — I mean between Alan and 
me Why, hello, Dan. 

i^Enter Dan, r. \ sees Helen in Seth's arms, puts hatids 
over eyes,) 

Dan. Whew ! I didn't see nothin'. 'F I did, I wouldn't 
tell. Trust me. 

(Seth and Helen separate, she in co?ifusion. Angie, r. ; 
Seth, r. c. ; Helen, c. ; Dan up by table, layi?ig down 
several letters.') 

Seth. Got the mail, Dan ? 

Dan. Yep. And you've got the female, looks like. 

Seth. Don't get fresh, young man. {To Helen and 
Angie.) He's spoiled, you see. Reads too many dime 
novels. 

Dan. S'pose you'd rather read love stories ? 

Seth. That'll do for you. Skip ! 

Helen. Oh, no; we're going now. At least, I must. 
I'm afraid I shan't see you again very soon, Seth, \( 
you stick to your determination. If you would only 
give it up. 

Seth. Would you want me to do that — to forsake prin- 
ciple — fall from my standard of right? No, I'm sure 
you wouldn't. You couldn't love a man who would 
do that. 

Helen. N-no, of — of course I — I suppose I couldn't. 
But — oh, I don't know — I feel as if there was nothing 
bright ahead — as if there is nothing to live for 

Angie. Oh, pshaw ! There's heaps. "Never say die" is 
my motto. Well, if you're going, come on. 

(Angie goes r., starts back, in alarm. Seth and Helen 
are c, close together, Dan up by desk.) 

Dan (also looking off r.). Whoop ! Separate ! Here 

comes 

Angie. Your father, Helen, — coming back. He must 

have seen you come in here. Run and hide. 
Helen. Where — where ? (Starts l.) I'll go in here. 
Seth. No — don't. Don't do that ; stay here. Helen ! 

24 



TEE VILLAGE LA WYEB 



(Shey too frightened to obey him, runs off l., Just as David 
hurries in r.) 

David. Where's my daughter? (^Looks about.') I saw her 
come in here. (^To Seth.) Where have you hidden 
her? You'd better produce her. Where is she ? 

Seth (j?iotioning l._). She is there, Mr. Conant. She ran 
in there in spite of my attempt to detain her. I will 
call her. 

{^Goes L., disappears a moment, returns leading Helen, 
who is trembling, standing l. with drooping head.) 

David. So! A pretty situation, isn't it? Concealing my 
daughter and trying to keep her from me. That's the 
kind of man you are. {To Helen, sternly.) Come 
here. 

Seth. You misjudge me — you know it 

David. Don't waste words trying to explain. I can believe 
my own eyes. {To Helen.) Go ! Go home, at once. 
I will deal with you later. 

Angie. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. David 
Conant. You're just as hard-hearted and unjust as 
you can be. If you were my father 

Seth. Angie ! Hush 

David {glaring at her). If I were your father you'd have 
some decency and manners instead of being an impu- 
dent little flirt, as you are. Maybe if Helen hadn't 
had so much to do with you 

Helen {suddenly gaini7ig courage, forgetting her fear of 
him and for a mo7tient flaring up desperately). Father ! 
How can you speak so to Angie ? She is not a flirt, 
and she is my friend ! She's not what you say, and 
she never — never — influenced me or made me 

David. Silence ! How dare you speak to me like that ? 
Go, I say 

Helen. No, father, I can't — {as he threatens her) I won't, 
not till I have told you the truth. You have no right 
to misjudge her and — and Seth ! I went in that room 
of my own accord — when he told me not to — because 
I was afraid of you — of my own father — but I don't 
care what you say, nor what you do to me, you shan't 
accuse him of such things. He is good and noble and 
true, and I — I — love him, and — and 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



(She wavers, breaks down, sobbijig hysterically. Seth goes 
to her, as if to comfort, but David steps between them.) 

David. Stand back ! So this is what my daughter has 
come to, through you and (to Angie) through you. 
It's worse than I thought; but I'm glad I have found 
it out in time. (To Seth.) Perhaps I shall have more 
to say to you on this subject another time. (To Helen.) 
Come. 

Helen. But, father, I — I didn't mean — I — forgive me ! 

1 forgot — I Oh, don't blame him. It was all my 

fault. (Turns to Seth, implori7igly .) Don't let him 
blame you. It was my fault. I 

David (his arm about her, leading her r., firmly but with 
a slight show of tenderness'). That will do. (She 
sobs.) You'll find you can't defy me. (To Seth, as 
he pauses R.) And as for you — perhaps you'll realize 
the same thing — before I get through with you. 

(He goes out R., sternly 7notioni?ig Helen to follow him ; 
she does so, tearfully, lookiiig back at Seth with a 
sad smile afid a despairing shake of her head. Seth 
stands c, almost crushed; Angie goes up and looks 
off R., indignantly. Dan up by desk, silently express- 
ing his hatred for David. Angie cofnes back to Seth.) 

Angie. Oh, Seth, I'm so sorry. Why — why don't you 
give it up — the nomination — those old politics 

Seth (smiling down at her, tenderly stroking her head). 
Give up? No — no, little one; never! (With fervor, 
clenching his fist and lookifig boldly toward R.) No — 
no ! That man is a demagogue — a tyrant ! He's got 
to be beaten — crushed — and I — mean — to — do — it ! 

(He stands looking r., with a set, deterfnined expression, 
not noticing Angie, who clings to him, looking up at 
him with a hopeful smile. Dan, at back, shows his 
approbation by giving a silent ^* Hurrah / " waving his 
right hand over head.) 



CURTAIN 



26 



ACT II 

SCENE. — Sa?Jie as Act /, in the afternoon^ about a week 
later. Discover Dan, actively €?igaged brushing up 
floor ivith broom. He sweeps toward door r., givijig 
the broom a flourish almost in the face of David, who 
enters hurriedly. Dan falls back with an apology ; 
David glares at him. 

David. What you trying to do ? Why don't you tend to 
your business and see what you're doing ? 

( Goes to deskf taking up telephone.) 

Dan. Excuse me, Mr. Conant. Awful sorry; never saw 
y'. {Takes broom l.) 

David. Well, the next time pay more attention. I want 
to use your 'phone a minute. {Calls up on 'phone.') 
Give me 265 Main. (Pause.) Yes, yes — Main 265. 
{To Dan.) Say, boy, run down to the store, will you, 
and get me four five-cent cigars — Birch knows what 
kind I smoke. {Takes quarter from pockety gilding it 
/^Dan.) Here's a quarter. You can keep the change. 

Dan. Thanks. You watch the office ? 

David. Sure. {In' phone.) Hello! Is Miss Underwood 
there — Miss Isabel Underwood? {Pause.) Hello — 
yes. Oh, is that Miss Underwood ? {He pauses each 
time lo7ig enough for other person to speak?) Yes, this 
is Mr. Conant. All right. I am in Mr. Barrett's office 
now. Yes. Well, suppose you come right down here. 
They'll tell you the way there at the hotel. It's only a 
step. All right. Thanks. Good-bye. {Puts dow?? 
'phoney turns, sees James Ferguson looking in window. ) 
Oh, hello, Jim ; come on in. You're just the man 1 
wanted to see. 

(David rises, goes c. ; enter James, r.) 

James. What's the news ? 
David. She's here ! 
James. What ! the woman ? 

27 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



David. Yes. Just arrived this morning. She's at the 
hotel now. That's her I was talking to over the 
'phone. I sent the boy out after some cigars, so he 
wouldn't hear. He's a pretty bright kid and might 
catch on to something. 

James. Think she'll be equal to it? 

David. What! that woman? Sure. It's a cinch. I had 
a long talk with her when I was in New York last week 
and found her up to snuff. Those actresses will do 
anything for money, and she's dead set after our five 
hundred, all right. Tells a straight story, too. Oh, 
she's got the goods, and it won't take her long to put 
the quietus on Barrett and give him such a black eye 
that he'll be out of the running. 

James {looking about ^ out of door, etc.^. Where is he 
now ? 

David. Out electioneering, I guess. The boy says he 
drove over to Barleyville this morning and said he'd 
be back toward night. She's coming here to talk it 
over. 

James. Who — the woman ? 

David. Sure — the woman. I told her to come right down. 
We'll fix it all up right here, if we can get rid of the 
boy. 

James. Kind o' resky business, ain't it — right in his own 
office? 

David {laughing coarsely). Well, maybe 'tis. Guess we'd 
better go down to my office, come to think of it ; but I 
kind o' wanted to have her here and spring her on 
Barrett, if we could. But I guess there's time enough 
for that. We'll wait here till she comes, though. Be 
right here. 

James. She knew him, did she ? Got a straight story ? 

David. Straight ? The truth. Of course, embellished up 
a bit. But she got acquainted with Barrett when he 
was in college. He was pretty gay with the rest of 
'em, and they got pretty thick. Seems he made love 
to her — paid her lots of attention for a while, and — 
m'm — well, she got a hold on him somehow or other, 
threatened him with suit for breach of promise, or 
something like that — got some money out of him — and 
— well, it's all straight enough. 

James. Sure it wasn't anything like — blackmail ? 

28 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



David. No, of course it wasn't. If I thought it was, do 
you suppose I'd have anything to do with it ? I just 
got onto it by chance — a stroke of luck — and I tell you 
it was luck, too. It'll be the means of beating him, 
and that's what we've got to do. If Seth Barrett ever 
got elected District Attorney — well, good-bye to us. 
We can't afford to let that happen. 

James. No, I guess you can't, Conant. It'd put a crimp 
on your political career all right. 

David. Mine ? And a few others, I calculate. Don't for- 
get, Ferguson, it means your bread and butter, too. 

James. Bread and butter ? Yes, and that's about all. 
But with you it means houses and lots, automobiles, 
trips to Europe, and such like. 

David. Oh, come now, don't begin that. You get your 
share for what you do. {Sees off r.) Here comes the 
kid. Not a word now before him. 

James. Sure. But what if the woman 

David. I'll fix that; don't you worry. 

(^Enter Dan, r., with cigars , which he gives to David.) 

Dan. Here they are, Mr. Conant. 

David. Thanks. {Gives 07ie of the cigars to James, as he 
glatices off R., motioning to James, who follows his 
gaze.') By the way, Dan, I forgot to tell you to get me 
some postage stamps, too. {Takes quarter from 
pocket.) Run down to the post-office and get me 
some, will you ? — ten twos. Keep the nickel. 

Dan {taking rnoney). Well, y' know, I was supposed to 
look after the office, and 

David. Oh, that's all right. It won't take you but a 
minute, and we'll see to things. Skip along. 

Dan. All right. 

(^Exit Dan, r. ; David looks after him. He is r. c. ; 
James, l. c.) 

David. Here she comes. 

James (Jookifig off r.). Gee! she's a stunner, ain't she ? 

David. Yes, and she knows her business, too. 

(^Enter Isabel Underwood, r. ; she is somewhat flashily 
dressedy though still ifi good taste. Goes effusively to 
David, offering her hand.) 
29 



TEE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Isabel. Ah, Mr. Conant. How nice to see you again. I 
hope you are well ? 

David. Yes, thank you. Miss Underwood. And you ? 

Isabel. Very well, thank you, and I am sure this delight- 
ful country air will be most beneficial. It is so — so 
invigorating, you know, and 

(Pauses J looking at James.) 

David. Permit me to introduce Mr. Ferguson — Miss Isabel 

Underwood. 
James. Charmed to meet you, I am sure. 

{She smiles i shaki?ig hands rather ceremoniously with James 
with an enquiring look at David.) 

David. This is the gentleman I told you about — my right 

hand man. He understands everything and — well, 

you need have no hesitation about speaking before him. 

We three are the only ones so far. 
Isabel. I see. {To James.) I am pleased to know you, 

Mr. Ferguson. 
James {bowing with a crude attempt at courtliness). Same 

here, I'm sure, ma'am. 
Isabel {smilifig, as if amused). The amount, I believe, 

gentlemen, was to be five hundred dollars 

David. Yes, that's the sum we agreed upon. 

Isabel. Payable ? 

David. Half now, or as soon as you have — er — convinced 

us that you have the goods, and — the remainder if he 

is defeated. 
Isabel. Very well. I shall earn the half at once — as soon 

as I have met the man. Where is he ? 
David. Out of town just at present, but will be back 

shortly. In the meantime, perhaps we'd better go 

down' to my office and talk matters over. 
Isabel. Oh, then this is not your office ? 
David. N-no, it — it is his. 
Isabel {laughing). Indeed ! How original ! Planning a 

man's ruin in his own bailiwick. Dear me, but that 

seems the irony of fate, doesn't it? 
James. Seems cheeky, t' my way of thinking. 
David. Oh, it's too bad about that. But I guess you two'd 

better go on down to my office, and I'll follow as soon 

as the kid comes back. 

30 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



James. All right. 

(Isabel walks to r., followed by James. They pause ^ as 
Mrs. D. suddenly rushes m r. ) 

Mrs. D. Oh, excuse me — I didn't know {Stares at 

Isabel in surprise, then turns to David.) I come to 
see Seth Barrett. {Nods toward Isabel.) Didn't 
know he had s' much grand comp'ny. 

David {jnotionint^ to James to go on ; James and Isabel go 
off r., she looking back curiously at Mrs. D., then with 
a nod at David, who retur?is it). He drove over to 
Barleyville. Be back some time this afternoon. 

Mrs. D. Where's Dan ? 

David. He just ran down to the post-office for me. Be 
right back. 

Mrs. D. {goifig and taking chair l. c). Who's all that, 
just in here — that woman ? 

David. A stranger, I believe, who stopped to enquire her 
way, and Mr. Ferguson volunteered to show her. 

Mrs. D. Oh, he did? I guess *' her way " don't need 
much showin', from the looks of her. If she ain't able 
to make her own way, I'll miss my guess. I never saw 
such a fussed-up thing. City boarder, I suppose? 
Stoppin' at the hotel ? 

David. I believe so. I didn't enquire into her business. 
Leave that for you to do. 

Mrs. D. Oh, you will? Well, it seems t' me, Dave 
Conant, that was a pretty knowin' look she give you as 
she went out. I reckon she's the kind it don't take 
long t' get acquainted — with a man. 

{Enter Dan, r., with stamps, which he gives to David.) 

David. Much obliged. {Goes r.) Still interviewing 

lawyers, Mrs. Dill ? 
Mrs. D. Still 'tendin' to my own business, Mr. Conant. 

S'pose you follow my example. 
David {laughi?ig, as if she were not worth noticing'). All 

right. Kind of afraid I won't succeed, though, if I go 

about it the way you do. Tell Barrett I was here, Dan, 

and want to see him to-night. 

{Exit, R.) 
31 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Dan. The old skunk ! I d' know what he wants t' hang 
around here for. (Up by desk.) Not after another 
divorce, are you, Mis' Dill? 

Mrs. D. None of y'r impudence, young nian. I was jest 
down to the store 'n' thought I'd stop in 'n' see how 
Seth's gettin' along with his pohtics. Hope he'll get 
elected, but I tell you it won't be no easy job t' beat 
Dave Conant — such a man as he is. He's be'n boss 
around here too long t' give up without a big fight. 
He'll do anything on earth t' keep his hold. Who's 
that woman 'twas here jest now ? 

Dan. That one 't jest went down the street with Mr. 
Ferguson 'n' Mr. Conant ? Don't know. Looks 
some like a city boarder. Ain't she stopping at your 
house ? 

Mrs. D. No, she ain't. Never saw her b'fore. But y* 
needn't tell me Dave Conant didn't. That look she 
give him meant somethin'. Kind of a flighty sort o' 
creature, 's my opinion. {Goes r.) Wal, guess I'll 
be gett'n' along. What time y' expect Sethback? 

Dan {by windoiu, looki?ig out). D' know. Pretty soon, I 
guess. ( Calls to some one outside. ) Hello ! Come 
on in. 

Mrs. D. {looking). Who is it? Oh, Angle, with Mr. 
Spencer. She's jest crazy about him. I should think 
her brother 

{Enter Angie and Alan Spencer, r., laughing^ both in a 
very happy mood.) 

Angie. Good-afternoon, Mrs. Dill. Alan — Mr. Spencer 
— and I are talking about getting up a little picnic 
party, and we stopped in to see if Seth wouldn't go. 
Isn't he here, Dan ? 

Dan. No. Ain't got back from Barley ville yet. 

Mrs. D. I guess Seth Barrett's got something else t' do be- 
sides goin' t' picnics. Didn't you know he's runnin' 
for District Attorney ? 

Angie. Why, yes, but 

Alan. I hope he gets elected. Don't you, Mrs. Dill? 

Mrs. D. Of course I do. Anything t' get the best o' 
Dave Conant. But I guess Seth'll find that ain't no 
picnic. 

32 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Alan. I don't know — a young man as popular as Mr. 
Barrett seems to be 

Mrs. D. Popular 1 Yes, but what's bein' popular com- 
pared to the hold Dave Conant's got, 'n' his kind o' 
followers ? Him and that Jim Ferguson ! What they 
ain't up to I guess never was thought of. {Goes R.) 
Wal, I'll be gitt'n' along, 'r you folks won't git no sup- 
per, Mr. Spencer, 'n' I guess that interests you more'n 
poHtics. 

Alan. Why, Mrs. Dill, do I act so ravenous ? But then, 
you know, this country air — and all the good things 
you give us 

Mrs. D. Land, I don't begrutch y'. Glad t' see y' eat. 
Compliment t' my cookin*. {Looks off r.) If 
here don't come my Sam ! Land, he foUers me around 
like a pet dog. Can't git out of his sight a minute. 

Angie. You ought to appreciate such devotion, Mrs. Dill. 

Mrs. D. Devotion ? Huh ! I call it a nuisance. Al- 
ways pokin' under foot. 

{Enter Sam, r.) 

Sam. Oh, here you be, Janey dear. Kind o' missed 
y' {Sees the others.^ How d' do ? 

{They return his salutation.^ 

Mrs. D. Land, don't y' think I know the way home? 

You might better 'a' stayed there 'n' peeled them 

p'taters. 
Sam. Got 'em all peeled. 'N' mopped up the kitchen, 'n' 

swatted some flies, 'n' — grated some horse-radish. 
Angie. There, Mrs. Dill, I guess you can't say he hasn't 

been busy. 
Mrs. D. No, Sam, you've done pretty well, I guess, if 

you've done all that. You're quite a help lately, I must 

say. Come on, now, 'n' we'll be gitt'n' home. {Going. ) 
Sam. Guess I'll stay down street a while. Can't I, Jane ? 
Mrs. D. Wal, don't you stay too long, then, 'cause I want 

you t' help git supper. Land knows, with city boarders, 

'n' no hired girl {To Dan.) When Seth comes, 

you tell him I want t' see him about somethin' 

Sam {who is r., close to her — sentimentally). N-not a 

divorce, Jane ? 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Mrs. D, No, of course not. The idee ! You know bet- 
ter, Sam Dill. I've got somethin* else b'sides divorces 
t' think about jest at present. Mebbe I'll git back to 
the luxuries agin when my rush is over. 

{Exitf R.) 

Sam (chuckling). Jestjokin'. We've made it all up. Ain't 
had a spat f'r 'most a week — not a real, old-fashioned 
one. (^Goes r.) Guess I'll be goin' on down street. 
Want t' see what's the news. 

Alan. Do you think Mr. Barrett is going to be elected, Mr. 
Dill? 

Angie. Oh, do say " yes," Mr. Dill ! 

Sam. Might say it, but that wouldn't make it so. Hope he 
does. He'll have my vote, but — wal, when it comes t' 
beat'n' Dave Conant ! But y' can't tell. The tide 
may turn. Like t' see him git the worst of it, b' gosh ! 
But 't's kind o' dubious. 

{Exit J R., shaking head.) 

(Dan is up by desk, or busy about stage, Angie sits L., 
Alan is c.) 

Alan. This Mr. Conant must be a powerfully influential 
man, 

Angie. Yes, I suppose he is. At any rate, he seems to be 
a sort of — a sort of political czar, in this county. He's 
had his way so long, and nobody of any account has 
run against him, that — well, now that Seth's been put 
up as his opponent, and the Democrats have gone in to 
work for him as if determined he should win, — why, I 
guess Mr. Conant begins to have a little fear that his 
power is waning, and that Seth really may beat him. 
But I don't know. It seems almost too good to be true. 

Dan. Don't you believe it. Mr. Barrett's goin' to win. 

Alan. That's the way to look at it. Just say he is. I be- 
lieve in that. 

Angie. Oh, yes, that's all right. I believe in being that 
way, too, but — well, you see, I don't believe Mr. 
Conant would stop at anything to beat Seth, and — he 
— has already told Helen that she mustn't speak to him 
any more or have anything to do with him. You 
know, she and Seth 

34 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Alan. Yes. Last summer when I was here, I thought it 
was about settled. 

Angie. So it was. But now — — Oh, dear, it's terrible. 
And Helen's so afraid, and of course Seth doesn't like 
to set her against her own father, he isn't that kind of 
fellow, and Oh, dear, I don't see how it's com- 
ing out ! Of course, I want Seth to do what's right, 
and help his party, and all that, but — I do wish he'd 
give up those horrid politics. It seems to me getting 
the one you love is better than being elected to all the 
offices in the world. 

(^Almost in tears ^ but trymg to be cheerful.') 

Alan {standing by her, putting his hand on her shoulder). 
That's what I think, too, dear, but you know a man 
has to stick to principle and — don't you think she 
would have him anyway, in spite of her father? 

Angie. She couldn't. You don't know that man. He's 
capable of locking her up — or putting her in a convent 
— or anything. He's a regular tyrant, and Helen — she 
hasn't a bit of courage. Now, if it was me — I mean 

u J " 

Alan. What would you do, dear ? 

{He bends over her affectionately.) 



Angie. Why, I — I 

Dan. Excuse me ! If you want t' do any spooning, 
maybe I'd better vamoose. 

Angie. Dan ! 

Dan. Aw, — well, you two make me sick ! You can stay 
here 'n' mush; I'm going out 'n' buy "Ferocious 
Fred's Fatal Fight" with the ten cents Mr. Conant 
give me. {Goes r.) Be back in a minute. You two 
keep an eye on things *n' do all the spoonin' you want 
t'. 'S nobuddy 'round. 

(Exity R.) 

Angie {blushing). Isn't he terrible ? 
Alan. I don't know about that. I think he's a pretty sen- 
sible boy, and a very accommodating one, 

{She sits on chair c. ; he pushes her along a little and sits 
on edge of chair beside her. Puts arm around her.) 

35 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Angie. Oh, Alan ! 

Alan {bending over, looking up into her face). D-don't 

you think you could give me that — er — that kiss now ? 
Angie {turning her head away, in confusiofi). The idea ! 

Of course not. It wouldn't be right. 
Alan. Why, I — I think it would be right, all right. If 

you won't give it to me, what if I should help myself? 
Angie. Well, of course, I — a big strong man like you. I 

just suppose I couldn't help myself {Makes a 

pretense at rising as he attempts to kiss her.) You 

— mustn't ! 
Alan. But I must ! I simply can't help it. 

{She still co)itinues a pretense of trying to escape, but in 
reality submits, and he kisses her, just as Seth enters 
R. He stands a momefit watching the?n, at first sur- 
prised, the?i ivith a stern, disapproving look.) 

Seth {co77iing dow?i, speaking sternly). Well ! Is this 
what has been going on in my absence ? Angie, come 
here ! 

(Angie and Alan spring up, he confused, but standing his 
ground ; she in great perturbation, going and statiding 
by Seth, 'almost in tears, looking pleadingly at him.) 

Alan. Mr. Barrett — I hope 

Seth. I thought I could trust you, Mr. Spencer. I thought 
you were a gentleman — an honest one. 

Alan. I hope I am, Mr. Barrett. Perhaps I forgot myself 
for the moment, but — you know what my feelings are 
toward your sister, I think, and my intentions. If you 
will listen to me, I think I can justify myself 

Seth. I prefer to listen to nothing more on the subject at 
present. You will kindly leave us. We can talk this 
matter over another time. 

Angie {her hand o?t his ar?n, pleadingly). Oh, Seth, don't 
— don't send him away ! 

Seth {affectionately, but with firmness). Hush, dear; I 
am not sending him away — I am asking him to go, and 
I am sure he will do as I request. This is no place for 
such a scene, Mr. Spencer, and no time. You should 
have known that. 

Alan {about to go). I am sorry, Mr. Barrett; I forgot 

36 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



myself. I will do as you request, but I shall yet be 
able to convince you of my worthiness, I hope, and 
of my honesty. Good-bye, Angie — Miss Barrett — 

and (7<? Seth.) May I come and see you, Mr. 

Barrett — soon ? 

Seth. Yes. 

Alan. Thank you. ( Wiih a dignified bow, exits r.) 

Angie. Oh, Seth, how could you? You have offended 
him, and he may go away and I — never — see — him — 
again ! ( Weej>s.) 

Seth (^putting an arm about her, corjifortingly). There, 
there, little one ! If his intentions are honorable and 
he really loves you, he won't go away ; never fear. 
Don't you know 1 have to look out for the welfare of 
my little sister, to whom I have been both father and 
mother for six years ? You hardly know this young 
man from the city — and his type. Mind you, I don't 
say there is anything wrong with him — to the contrary, 
I like him myself — but to make love to you, to kiss you, 
here, where anybody might see — and before he had 
asked my consent — no, that's too much. Oh, I know 
how you feel, and I'm sorry to hurt your feelings, but 

you are infatuated and But there, we won't say 

any more about it at present. ( Goes up to desk, looks 
over letters he finds there, etc.) Where's Dan? 

Angie. Why — Alan — Mr. Spencer — and I were here, so 
he said he guessed he'd run out and — and buy a di — 
something. He'll be right back. 

Seth. I see. Bright lawyer that boy's going to make 

{^Enter Dan, r. ; when he sees Seth he hides paper novel 
under coat.) 

Dan. Oh, you back, Mr. Barrett? I just ran out 

Seth. I know. {Holds out hafid.) Let's see what this 

one's about. 
Dan. W-what ? 

Seth. Come on, now ; let me see it. Fork over. 
Dan {reluctantly handifig him book). Give it back? 
Seth {examining book). " Ferocious Fred's — — " M'm 

— that looks like a pretty good one. Thanks. 

{Puts book in pocket.) 
Dan. Aw, say, now, give it back. Will y' ? I want it. 

37 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Seth. Just at present, young man, I think you'd better try 
to digest something with a little more substance. Here. 

{Hands him heavy law book.') 

Dan {taking book). Aw, that dry old thing ! 
Seth. Not another word. Sit. Read. 

{Motions to chair ; Dan sits, scowling ; opens book.) 

Dan {sulkily, readiftg). Read two pages yest'day. 

Seth. Suppose you think you ought to be a full-fledged 
lawyer by this time, then. Well, a few more pages 
won't give you any too much knowledge. 

Angie {who has been standing L., looking on^ somezvhat 
amused and much interested, now coming toe). I think 
I'll be going, Seth. 

Seth. All right, dear. No hard feelings, I hope, toward 
your big brother? 

Angie {going to him). Why, Seth, of course not. How 
could there be? I know you mean it for my good — 
you know best — and — I — I'll do just as you say. (He 
kisses her ; she goes R., smiling, is about to exit, whe?i 
she starts and comes back.) Oh, Seth — here comes 
Helen ! 

Seth {rising). Helen — here? 

Angie. Yes. 

Seth. She shouldn't. I'm afraid 

(Angie meets Helen, who efiters R., timidly, but with some 
detertninaiiofi ; she greets Angie affectionately, then 
goes to Seth, c. , aiid he welcomes her gladly, but with 
some trepidation.) 

Helen. Seth ! I — I had to come. 

Seth. But you shouldn't, dear. You know, if your 

father 

Helen. But 1 don't care. I can't stand it any longer, 

and I won't. He has no right 

Seth. Yes, he has, dear, and you must respect it. We 

must be very careful, you know. 
Helen. But he is so hard — so cruel — and I Oh, 

sometimes I think I almost hate him, if he is my father. 

He actually threatened to lock me in my room if — if I 

spoke to you again, and 

38 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Seth. And yet, here you are, speaking to me. Helen, you 
must go back home ; at once, before he knows, if pos- 
sible. That is the best way. Yes, dear, you must 
obey him — -for my sake as well as for your own. Trust 
me. It will all come out right. But now — now you 
must be very careful, dear, and help me. 

Helen. Help you, Seth ? 

Seth. Yes. 1 need your help. I have a hard struggle 
before me — a struggle, I am sorry to say, against your 
father — but it's an honest fight. I have entered into it, 
and I nmst see it through. 

Helen. And I want you to win, Seth — if he is my father ! 

Seth. Thank you, dear ; and nov/ you must go home, as 
quickly as possible. 

Helen. All right, I will. 

Angie (who has stood back, now coining down). He's been 
giving me advice — and instructions—too, Helen. We 
seem to be in the same boat. {Smiles, rather sadly.) 

Dan {pretending to be much disturbed, looking up). Gee ! 
How's a fellow goin' t' read law ? 

Seth. It's too bad about you. You can go in the other 
room, if necessary. 

(^Exit Dan l., taking ?iovel and leaving law book.) 

Angie {going r.). Come on, Helen ; let's escape while we 

have a chance. 
Helen. All right. {Going.) Good-bye, Seth. I shan't 

give up hope, 
Seth. Of course you won't — I should say not ! While 

there's life, you know— and there's still plenty of it. 

Good-bye. 

(^The girls affectionately bid him good-bye and go off to r. 
He sta?ids by desk, takes up several letters, glances at 
them ; one interests him very 7nuch and he becomes 
slightly agitated ; is reading it when Angie enters R. 
He does not 7iotice her until she speaks.) 

Angie. Seth. {Comes to R. c. ; Seth c.) 

Seth. Hello ! you back ? 

Angie. Yes. Oh, Seth, you aren't really mad at Alan — 

Mr. Spencer — are you ? 
Seth. Mad? Why, no, of course not. 
Angie. I mean — you aren't down on him ? He just for- 

39 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



got, that's all, when he tried to — to — well, you know. 

He is a gentleman, Seth, I know he is, and I — I 

Seth {putting an arm about her, consolingly). Yes, dear, 
I know, and don't you let it worry your poor little 
head. It will come out all right. If he is worthy of 
you, he will prove it, and — well, if he's worth waiting 
for, you must prove you're worthy of him by waiting as 
I wish you to do. Run along now, that's a dear. I 
have lots to think about and lots to do. 

(^Looks at letter, with a worried expression.^ 

Angie. What is it, Seth ? Something about those old 
politics ? Let me see ? ( Tries to look at letter. ) 

Seth. No, no, it's nothing for you to know about. You 
wouldn't understand. 

Angie. But it's in that letter, isn't it? 

Seth. Yes. It's something I shouldn't like Mr. Conantto 
get hold of, that's all. Politics mean war, you know, 
and this is a sort of plan of the campaign. {He is 
earnestly regardifig letter.) It gives us an advantage, 
and if he knew 

Angie. Well, I must go ; Helen is waiting for me. Dear 
me, between you and Helen, and me and — and 
politics 

(Shakes her head perplexedly and exits R. Seth sits by 
desk, looking at letters. After slight pause enter 
Isabel, r. He does not at first v otic e her. She stands 
a mome?it regarding him with interest and some 
curiosity. Her 7nanner is jaunty, self-possessed, at 
times almost impude?it, though she starts this scefie 
with an assumed air of meek?iess and innocence, a pose 
which she soon drops.) 

Isabel. I beg pardon. This is Mr. Barrett, is it not? 

(Seth turns, surprised, for a moment not recognizing 
Isabel. She regards him smilingly.) 

Seth. Yes. I am Mr. Barrett. 

Isabel. Can it be you don't remember me ? (Pretends 

disappoinf^nent.) You don't ! 
Seth (looking at her closely, with a puzzled expression). 

Why — I — (pause) it seems to me I do. It's — it's 

Isabel Underwood. 

40 



TEE VILLAGE LAWYER 



(Enter Dan, l., unnoticed.') 

Isabel. Ah, I am so relieved. You do remember. It 
would have been too bad had you not recognized so old 
a friend. Aren't you glad to see me ? 

{Holds out her handy which he pretends fiot to see.') 

Seth. How do you happen to be here ? Why have you 
come? 

Isabel. How unkind, — to ask questions, instead of saying 
you are delighted to see me. But I will answer them. 
It's all by a lucky chance. You see, I am having a 
little vacation — thought I should like to go to some 
quiet place, where I could rest, and, as luck would 
have it, turned up here last night, and — almost the first 
name I heard mentioned, much to my surprise, was that 
of Seth Barrett. It seems you are getting to be quite a 
public man — a person of some importance. 

Seth. Won't you be seated ? 

Isabel. Thanks. {Sits r. c.) 

(Dan has been up l. c, looking 07i and listening with much 
interest. ) 

Seth. You may go, Dan. I won't need you any more to- 
day. 

Dan. All right. {Gets hat, exits r.) 

Seth {standi?ig c). It does seem to be a peculiar coinci- 
dence, Miss Underwood 

Isabel. Ah, — call me " Isabel " ! 

Seth. Your turning up here this way — Miss Underwood ! 
— not knowing, as you say, that this is where you 
would find me. But, seeing you are here, you might 
as well tell me at once, without any more useless 
preliminaries, just what it is you want. {She makes a 
gesture of remonstrance.) Oh, I know there is some- 
thing. This is not the first time, remember. 

Isabel. You do me an injustice. How can you wrong 
me so, such old friends as we are? 

Seth. Yes, perhaps we were friends, once, if you want to 
call such an acquaintance as ours by that sacred name. 
I shouldn't. But, at any rate, we were pretty well 
acquainted. I was a green country boy, in college, 
having my first glimpse of the world — *<real life," as 

41 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



they call it — and, naturally enough, I suppose, easily 
became infatuated with the handsome actress — or 
"showgirl," rather — who lost no time in taking ad- 
vantage of my infatuation, getting all she could out of 
me, and then throwing me over. 
Isabel {rising). Oh, you poor, innocent boy ! Too bad, 
wasn't it ? Nobody to protect you from the wiles of 
the woman to whom you made violent love, and who 
looked upon you as the silly little country gawk you 
were. Well, you got off mighty easy. She might have 
collected big damages for breach of promise, but she 
didn't. 

(Dan has appeared iti window, looking in and listening ; 
dodges back whefi there is danger of being detected ; 
seems to be ^^ catchi?ig on^) 

Seth. I was very foolish, I admit, but I never did any- 
thing wrong — you know that. You made enough out 
of my little indiscretion, and I thought it was all in 
the past, but — ah, I see ! My " past " — a rich morsel 
for my political opponents. Ah, ha ! So ! I might 
have known. 

Isabel. What are you driving at ? What do you mean ? 

Seth. M'm — surely, you don't expect I am able to pay 
you half as much as they — he ; however, if tiie letters 
are for sale, how much do you want for them? 

Isabel. What letters ? 

Seth. Why, those you have in your bag there, to be 
sure. You didn't come without your ammunition, and 
of course those foolish, calf-love letters I wrote you so 
long ago are what you depend upon to blow me up 
witii — if I don't come to time. What's your price ? 

Isabel. Sir, how dare you insult me ? Do you mean to 
insinuate ? 

Seth. Not at all. It's not necessary. I come right out 
flat and say — you have those letters, you want to sell 
the.m, and I ask, *' How much ? " 

Isabel. Well, you're pretty cute. But I might have 
known — you're a lawyer now. My, but you've 
changed since I knew you before. Well, then, 1 have 
the letters, and I don't mind saying they're for sale. 
I'm hard up. I've had a bad season — have been los- 
ing my hold for some time — and now I've got to get 
42 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



what I can out of life. I'm not owning that I have 
entered into any scheme, as you seem to infer, but I 
am saying that by handing these letters over to certain 
persons, who will see that the newspapers get them, 
your opponents can work up a scandal that will knock 
your chances of being elected as — whatever it is you're 
running for — sky-high, and also put an end for good 
and all to the love affair between you and that little 
country girl I seem to have heard something about. 
You might as well know the truth, and there it is. 

Seth. Not quite all of it, though. Mr. David Conant is 
the other bidder, and he is bound to bid higher than I. 
Very foolish of you, my dear Miss Underwood, to give 
him away and yourself too. I don't think he will 
thank you. You have robbed him of his thunder. 

Isabel. So ! that's how much you appreciate my coming 
to you, for old time's sake, and offering to help you. 

Seth. Yes, that's just how much 

Isabel. And you won't buy the letters? 

Seth. No ! I don't want the letters — and what's more, 
you have my permission to do as you please with them 
— to get all you can out of Mr. Conant — and I wish 
you success. 

(^He seems as if about to dismiss the subject^ indicating that 
he wishes her to go ; but she pretends not to under- 
sta?id. Dan keeps looking iti window and dodging 
back, taking it all in, unnoticed.') 

Isabel. Oh, come now, you can't bluff me that way. It's 
all put on, and you know well enough you would do 
anything in the world to prevent these letters getting in 
the hands of the other side. Why, innocent as they may 
be, your opponents could make capital of them and ruin 
your chances. {Takes small package of letters from 
hand-bag, shows them to him, tantalizingly.) Look — 
here they are — six little letters, which I have half a 
mind to give to you anyway, you're such a good sport, 
and let the others go hang. {Holds them out, then 
takes them back, though he makes no move to take 
the?n.) But no, I'm too hard up. Got to have money. 
Much as I'd like to give them to you for nothing, I 
can't afford it. Look at them. Don't they look like 
innocent little things ? 

43 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Seth. And so they are. I don't deny that such men as — 
as you are dealing with — could make capital out of 
them, but only by lying and exaggerations. They can 
do as much without the letters, 1 dare say, with your 
help, so what's the^use? I don't think there's any use 
discussing the matter further, Miss Underwood. 

Isabel. Oh, there isn't? Very well. But I can tell you 
now, Mr. Seth Barrett, when it's too late you will wish 
you had discussed it further. 

[She is well up stage, near desk, in her excitement ap- 
parently so?newhat losi?ig her self-possession ; nervously 
starts to pull on glove, or arra?ige hat or dress, and 
absefit-mindedly lays the packet of letters on desk, near 
those Seth previously had gathered up and left there. 
Dan is looking in window, watching her every viove- 
me?it. As Isabel again goes a few steps down c, Seth 
being farther down L. c. , where she keeps her eye on 
him, Dan reaches in and, watching closely, quickly 
seizes her letters. They are tied with a broad rubber 
band. Dan expeditiously loosefis band, takes the other 
letters — as left by Seth — puts rubber band around 
them a?id leaves that packet instead of the other, which 
he keeps, and thefi disappears from sight, after a mis- 
chievous glance a?id triumphant shake of his head at 
Isabel. ) 

Seth. I think not. (Looks off r.) You will find Mr. 
Conant's office down the street there — see, on that side 
(pointing'), three doors beyond the post-office. No 
doubt he is waiting for you anxiously. More anxious 
to see you than I am to detain you, I dare say. 

Isabel. How ungallant ! You never used to treat me in 
this way. But tliat was long ago, and — very well. So 
be it. I'm sorry — really I am — but if it is to be war 
between us, why — it's your own fault. 

(Goes up, as if about to exit.) 

Seth (pointing to desk). The letters ! Don't forget the 

precious letters. (Very coolly.) 
Isabel (starting, turtiing to desk, seizing letters). Oh ! 

I declare — how careless of me ! I — I quite forgot. 

Thank you. (She looks at him curiously, as if unable 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



to tmderstand such treatment.^ Why did you do 
that? 

Seth. Do what ? 

Isabel {linger i7ig ; back to c). Tell me about those 
letters ? 

Seth (r. c). They are yours — not mine. 

Isabel. But you might have — (Jioldifig up letters) and in- 
stead Well, it's beyond me. {Opens hand-bag 

and slips letters into it.) Really, you're the kind of 
fellow that deserves to win, but — (r.) you've had your 
choice, and now 

(Smiles patronizingly, shakes head, as if thi?iking, ^^ I give 
it up f' and exits r. Seth statids a mofne?it looking 
after her, with an expression that shows his disgust, 
also his determination, then, with a toss of his head, 
indicating that he is prepared to fight, turns to desk, 
as if to take up the letters he had left there. Not see- 
ing them, he looks about, puzzled ; is busily, and with 
increasing excitement, searching, on desk, under papers, 
in drawers, etc., as curtain falls .) 



CURTAIN 



45 



ACT III 

SCENE. — Nicely furnished dining-room and living-room 
combined, in home of Seth ; chairs, pictures, curtains, 
etc., as seen in u?iprete?itioiis but comfortable and 
attractive coimtry house. Entrances r. and L. Dis- 
cover Seth, who has Just risen from supper table, 
about to put o?i hat and go out ; Angie seated r., with 
fancy work ; Lobelia clearing last of supper things 
from table, L. c, removitig white cloth, putting on dark 
spread, etc. 

Lobelia. Miss Angie, he didn' eat hahdly nuffin dis time, 
eithuh. Seems lak yo' ain' got no ap'tite 't all, lately. 
Mass' Seff. Yo's gvvine be sick, yo' don' look out. 

Seth. Don't you worry, Lobelia; I'm all right. It's just 
this little excitement over the election, and so on. I'm 
not sick. 

Lobelia. Wal, Ah d' know 

Angie. I think Lobelia's right, Seth. You're all worked 
up, and election isn't for some time yet. I just don't 
think it's worth it — and Helen and all. 

{Exit Lobelia, l., with things.') 

Seth. Now, don't you begin too, little woman. I'm in 
for it, and I've got to see it through. You wouldn't 
want your big brother to show the white feather and 
back out now, would you ? 

Angie. N-no, of course I wouldn't; but a man like that 

old Dave Conant {Rises ; Seth looks at her 

reprovingly.) Well, I don't care — I just despise him. 
Look at the way he's treating Helen. Why, as if she 
were a baby, or — or he Bluebeard and she one of his 
wives 

{Enter Lobelia, l., working about.) 

Seth. I guess it isn't so bad as all that. Have you seen 
her lately ? 

46 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Angie {going to sofa down r.). Of course not. How 
could I, when he keeps her shut up ? I think it's your 
duty to go and rescue her. If I were in her place, I'd 
get out somehow and run away. 

Seth. And make matters all the worse. No, she is doing 
the very best thing. It will all come right in time. 
After election — however it may go — will be time to do 
something. In the meantime 

Angie. Yes, and in the meantime, for weeks maybe, she's 
got to stay shut up like — like the princess in the tower, 
and mope and mope. Ugh, — such a father ! 

Lobelia. Ah'd lak t' skin 'um alibe, de ole rapscallion ! 

Seth. Ha ! I guess his skin's too tough for that, Lobelia. 
{Goes R., with hat.) I'm going down street a while, 
Angie — to the office. I have lost an important letter, 
and must see if I can't find it. 

Angie. A letter ? What was it ? 

Seth. Oh, you wouldn t understand. From a politician 
— something about Conant that we don't want him to 
know we know. It'll turn up, I guess. Don't you 
bother. {About to go.) Just you see that you control 
that little tongue of yours, and not get too excited. 
You too. Lobelia. 

{Exit, R.) 

Lobelia. Ah reck'n mah li'll tongue's gwine say few t'ings 
— see 'f it don'. 

( Takes broom and begi7is brushing up. ) 

Angie. And mine, too. I'd — bust ! — if I didn't talk. I 
fairly boil when I think of Dave Conant. I suppose 
it's wicked, but I just hate that man. 

Lobelia. Den Ah's jest's wicked 's yo' is, honey, ca'se Ah 
'clar t' goodness Ah hates 'im too. Wha's he wan' 
treat Mass' Seff so, fo' ? Why don' he gwan 'long 'bout 
his bus'ness 'n' let Mass' Seff win? 

Angie. Why, because. Lobelia, that wouldn't be politics. 
There always has to be two sides, and of course Seth 
expects to have somebody run against him — but it's 
having a man like Mr. Conant to run against. Of 
course, it would be all the more satisfaction to beat 
him, but — I'm so afraid he can't. 

47 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Lobelia. Is yo', honey? Lan', Ah could beat him, yo' 
jes' bet, 'f Ah got aftah 'im once. Hit him ovah de 
haid s' hahd he'd jes' beg fo' mussy. 

Angie {laughing). But that isn't the way, Lobeha. You 
have to do it with the ballot. 

Lobelia. Laws a mussy. Ah ain' got no ball't, but Ah got 
a raight strong arm yuh, an* a mahty good broom- 
stick. 

Angie. Ha ! ha ! I guess the men wouldn't stand much 
chance if the women could use broomsticks instead of 
ballots. (^Throws head back f laughing merrily.') Oh — 
oh — Lobelia! 

Lobelia. Ah jes' bet Ah'd beat 'um. 

{K flocking heard off L.) 

Angie. I wonder who that can be, the back way. Go and 
see. Lobelia. 

{Exit Lobelia, l. ; Angie is seated, with fancy work, not 
looking up. Lobelia soon returns, l.) 

Lobelia. 'T's Miss Helyun. 

Angie {springing up). What ! Helen Conant — here ? 
{Enter Helen, l. She is pale and appears nervous 
and frighte7ied, but has an air of determifiation. 
Angie, c. ; Helen, l. c. ; Lobelia up l. Angie greets 
her affectionately.) Why, Helen dear, what's the 
matter ? What has happened ? 

Helen. I — have — run away. 

{Exit Lobelia, l.) 

Angie. I don't understand. You mean you have left 

home? 
Helen. Yes, and I am never going back. I'm not going 

to submit to such tyranny, even from my own father. 

He has no right to treat me so and make me a prisoner 

— I, a girl almost twenty. It's outrageous, and I won't 

stand it — I won't ! 
Angie. I know, dear, but Seth says it is for the best. 
Helen. Oh, it's easy enough for him to talk, but if — if 

he really loved me 

{She is seated on sofa down R. ; Angie standing by her.) 

48 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Angie. Oh, Helen, he does ! It's because he does, and 
because he wants to protect you and not do anything 
that you and he will be sorry for, — and the election, 
you know 

Helen. Oh, yes, I know ; he thinks more of that office 
he's running for than he does of me 

Angie. Why, Helen Conant, how can you say such a 
thing ? You know Seth isn't that kind of man, and I 
guess if that's the opinion you have of him — well 

Helen. It isn't, Angie, you know it isn't. I believe in 
Seth, and I want to do what's right, but I'm so — so 
miserable, and — and it's so terrible to stay shut up in 
the house, that I couldn't stand it any longer. Why, 
I'm actually afraid of father — he is so severe, so cruel, 
there is no saying what he might do. He would send 
me away, where I could never see Seth again, and — 
that would kill me. (She has risen.) No, I'm not a 
child to be treated like this — nor a slave, to be driven — 
and I won't submit to it, I don't care what happens ! 

{Enter Lobelia, l.) 

Lobelia. Wha's de mattah? Why, Miss Helyun, wha' 

ails yo' ? Yo' sick ? 
Angie. She's just excited, that's all, and all upset. She'll 

get over it in a few minutes. Come, Helen, we'll go 

up to my room; you can lie down and rest a little 

while, and then we'll talk it over and see what can be 

done. 

Helen. But I'm not going back home — I'm not 

Angie. Well, you needn't, then. Just come now and get 

quieted down. 
Helen (as she submits, going l. with Angie). Where's 

Seth? 
Angie. He went down street for a little while. Come, 

dear. {To Lobelia, as they go out.) Lobelia, don't 

tell any one she is here. If anybody comes enquiring 

for her, don't let them know. 
Lobelia. All raight, missy, Ah won't. Dey couldn' git 

it out o' me wid a dozen wil' hosses. No, sah. 

{Exeunt Angie and Helen, l. Door-bell rings. 'Lo- 

"BELiKgoes R.) Lan' o' mussy, wondah who dat is. 

{Exit R. ; admits David, 7i)ho blusters in, in a great rage, 
Lobelia following.) 

49 



THE VILLAGE LA WYER 



David. Where's my daughter? Don't say she isn't here; 
I know she is. 

Lobelia. Den Ah guess dey ain' no use sayin' nuffin, 'f 
yo'-all 's so suah. Reckon yo's mistaken, dough. 

David. No, I'm not mistaken, either. She's here, and I 
know she is, and the sooner you tell her to come out 
and show herself, the better. 

Lobelia. Lan* sakes, wha* yo' talkin' 'bout, Mass' Co- 
nant ? Who yo' look'n' fo' — Miss Helyun ? Ah reckon 
she's home. 

David. I reckon she isn't, so you needn't lie to me. She's 
here, that's where she is, and I'll make it hot for Seth 
Barrett, encouraging her to go against her father. 
He'll pay for it, and so shall she. It's the last time 
she'll get a chance to defy me like this. Well, why 
don't you go and tell her I'm here, instead of standing 
there like a bump-on-a-log ? 

Lobelia. Who yo' reckon yo's talkin' to, — me? Well, if 
yo' is, yo' ma'h't as well hush up yo' noise, 'case yo' 
cayn't scah me nohow. (He starts to go i.., but she 
bars his way.) Whar yo' gwine ? Gwan 'way from 
yuh, yo' fool man ! I'se gwine lose mah tempah 'n a 
minute. 

David. My daughter's in there. Stand aside. 

Lobelia. Stan' 'side yo'se'f. Whoevah heerd sech fool- 
ishness? Whose house yo'-all t'ink dis is — yo's? 

David {desisting^ but still determined ; sitting c, reso- 
lutely). Well, I'll wait right here, then, till I find out. 
We'll see whether she's going to obey me or not. 

(Door -bell rifigs.) 

Lobelia. My lan's o' lub, dar's dat ar bell agin. (Starts r.) 
David {springing up). Oh, so it rang before, did it? — 

when my daughter came ? I thought so. 
Lobelia. G' 'long ! Wha's do' -bells fo', 'f 'tain't t' ring? 

{Goes and admits Mrs. D., -r., followed by Sam.) 

Mrs. D. (seeing David). For the land's sake, you here, 
Dave Conant ? I guess they must be five or six of y', 
the way you keep yourself distributed. 'S if one wa'n't 
enough ! (To Lobelia.) Seth t' home? 

Lobelia. No, he ain' t' home. Up street. 

50 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Mrs. D. Oh, he is ? Wal, I want t' see hmi. When'll 

he be back? {Sits on sofa, r.) 
Lobelia. D'knovv. Purt soon, mebbe. 
Mrs. D. rU wait. Went to his office this afternoon, 'n' 

he wa'n't there. {Sits r. c.) I've got all night. 

{She disdains Sam, who tries to make tip to her, with an air 
of pitiful pleadifig. He brings chair from up r. and 
sits close to her ; she hitches away, giving him a 
wither itig look?) 

David (l,). What's the matter, Mrs. Dill? You and Sam 
had another spat? 

Mrs. D. Whose business is it, if we have ? 

Sam. Now, Jane ! Jane — speak to me, won't y' ? 

Mrs. D. {giving him another contemptuous look, theti turn- 
ing her back o?i him). I guess I ain't goin' t' stand 
everything. 'T's gone about fur enough. 

Lobelia. Laws o' mussy, Mis' Dill, yo' in anothah pickle? 

David. A dill pickle ! That's good. {Laughs.) 

Mrs. D. Smart, ain't y' ? I guess it's worse 'n a dill 
pickle you're comin' to, Dave Conant — 'lecdon. Say, 
what's this I hear about that woman from New York, 
tryin' t' hatch up somethin' t' hurt Seth Barrett? Your 
doin's, I'll bet a cookie. Jest like your way o' doin' 
things. Must be you're pretty well scart 'n' afraid o' 
gitt'n' beat, t' resort t' such methods. Pretty small, I 
call it. But, then, I ain't s'prised. 

David. Where'd you hear that yarn ? 

Mrs. D. Yarn, is it ? Well, I heard it all right. It comes 
straight enough. I knew the minute I laid eyes on her, 
the other day, 't she wa'n't here for no good purpose. 
Tryin' t' get up some story t' go ag'inst Seth Barrett, 
jes' so he won't get 'iected. Bet you're at the bottom 
of it. A man that'll lock his own daughter up, 's if she 
was some criminal, jest b'cause 

David. Say, let up, will you ? Your tongue runs like a 
tlireshing machine. Is there ever anything you don't 
find out ? I don't wonder your husband can't live with 
you 

Sam {firing i/p, indignantly to David). See here, Dave 
Conant, don't you talk that way t' my wife ! I won't 
stand for it, so y'd better shut up. She's worth a dozen 

51 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



like you, any day, 'n' when you 'nsuit her you 'nsult 
me. Understand? 

(Mrs. D. hoks at him in surprise ^ her anger beginning to 
change to admiration.) 

David. Ho ! you're a pretty one to talk, — a man that's 
henpecked as you are. Why, you don't dare say your 
soul's your own 

Mrs. D. {flaring up to hi7n). Oh, he don't, eh? I'd 
have you know he's my husband, Dave Conant, and more 
of a man than you ever was 'r ever will be. I'd ruther 
he'd be poor as a church mouse th'n t' be as rich as a 
dozen millionaires 'n' git the money the way you git 
yours. 

Lobelia. Laws o' mussy, Mis' Dill, don' yo' git so 'xcited. 
Fust y' know he'll have yo' put 'n de lock-up. 

Mrs. D. Let him try it. Not while I've got my husband 
here t' pertect me. Will he, Sam ? 

Sam {delighted, standing up by her'). No, Jane dear, you 
can bet he won't. {Glares at David.) 

David {laughing sarcastically). You're a fine lot, you 
are. I can't waste any more time over you. {To 
Lobelia.) I'm going, but I'll be back ; and I'll find 
my daughter, if I have to get out a search warrant to 
do it. You needn't think you can fool me. She's 
here, and I know it, for she was seen coming in this 
direction, not ten minutes before I got here. I'll have 
the law on you, that's what I'll do, and your precious 
master, too. 

Lobelia. Laws o' mussy ! Mass' Conant, he don' know 
nuffin 'bout it, 'deed he don't. He wa'n't yuh, 
nohow 

David. Ha ! Wasn't here — when ? 

Lobelia {confused, seei?tg her mistake). Why — when yo' 
come, Mass' Conant. Dat's all Ah means, deedy dat's 
all. 

David. All right. We'll let it go at that — for the present 
—but you'll find this isn't the last of it. Seth Barrett 
will hear from me about this. 

{Exit, R.) 

Mrs. D. For the land's sake, has Helen Conant run away 
from home ? Is she here ? 

52 



TEE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Lobelia. Dat's what he t'inks, the crazy jigger. Ain' got 
no sense, nohow. Nevah did see sich go'n's on. 
(^Goes L.) Ah's gwine up 'n' tell Miss Angie yo's 
yuh. 

{Exitf L.) 

(Mrs. D. sits, not noticing Sam, who makes up to her, 
imploritigly.) 

Sam. Jane! Jane, you goin' t' make up agin ? (Pause.) 
Be y', Jane? Don't y' know I love y', Jane, — don't y' 
know I do? Come on, Jane, will y', 'n' make it up? 

Mrs. D. Id' know whether I will'mot. What good does it 
do ? You go 'n' git me all pervoked agin, so 't I jest 
git desperate. I guess a divorce is the best thing. 

Sam. Oh, — J- Jane ! (Almost in tears.) 

Mrs. D. Yes, I guess it is 

Sam. Oh, Jane, you don't mean it ! Didn't I stick up for 
y' ? I'd fight for y', Jane, — I'd die for y' ! 

Mrs. D. Land, what 'd be the use ? You ain't got no Ufe 
insurance. 

Sam. But I'll git it insured. 

Mrs. D. 'N* then die for me ? I guess you might better 
live for me — 'n' prove y' mean it by havin' some gump- 
tion 'n' not bein' so shif'less. 

Sam. I will, Jane, — I will. I'll wipe the dishes, 'n' sweep, 
'n' chop wood, 'n' 

Mrs. D. (softening). M'm — w-well, then, I — I guess I'll 
forgive y' once more — ^jest this once 

(^^, delighted, is about to kiss her, when IuObelia enters L.) 

Lobelia. Laws o' mussy, what yo'-all do'n' ? Ah clar t' 

goodness, fight'n' one minute 'n' honey-sweet'n' de 

nex'. 
Mrs. D. Wal, I guess a man's got a right t' kiss his own 

wife, 'f he wants t'. 
Sam. 'N* I guess he wants t', too, when he's got the kind 

o' wife I have. 

(Smiles sentimentally at Mrs. D. She looks at him with 
tenderness. ) 

(Enter Angie, l.) 

Angie. Good-evening. Excuse me for not coming down 
before, but I didn't know you were here. 

53 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Mrs. D. Oh, that's all right. We ain't be'n lonesome. 
How's Helen Conant ? 

Angie. Why, she — she was pretty well, the last time I saw 
her. 

Mrs. D. Oh, she was? Glad t' hear it. I ain't askin' 
when that was. 'Tain't none of my business, I s'pose. 
I don't blame her if she has left, 'n' never goes back — 
with Dave Conant for a father. (Angie looks dis- 
mayed.) Oh, you needn't be scart. I ain't goin' t' tell 
all I knows, 'n' neither's Sam, so don't you let that 
worry y'. {Goes R.) Come on, Sara, I guess we'll be 
goin*. {To Lobelia.) You can tell Seth I was here, 
if y* want t', but that what I come t' see him about 
can wait. Come on, Sam. 

(Exit, R. Sam follows, pauses at door, looking back, 
gritming.) 

Sam. Guess I know how t' git around her, don't I? See 
how easy I done it ? 

(Exit, YL., chuckling.) 

Lobelia. Laws o' mussy, dey takes de cake ! 

{She and Angie both laugh.) 

{Enter Mrs. D., r., hurriedly.) 

Mrs. D. That woman's out here, — comin' in. 
Angie. Who, — what woman ? 

Mrs. D. That actress woman — the one from New York 

Angie. Here ? What does she want ? 

Lobelia. Ain' gwine let 'er in. Don' wan' no sech trash 

comin' yuh. {Goes R.) 
Angie. No, no; 1 can't see her. Tell her 

{Enter Isabel, r. Mrs. D. looks at her critically ; Angie 
laith surprise ; Lobelia dejiautly, as if inclined to put 
her out.) 

Isabel. I hope you will pardon me for entering so uncere- 
moniously. I was about to ring, when this lady (indi- 
cating Mrs. D.) opened the door and saved me the 
necessity of troubling you. May I enquire if Mr. Bar- 
rett is at home ? 

54 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Angie. No, he is not. If — if you have business with him, 
I think it will be necessary for you to call at his office. 

Mrs. D. I should say as much. Looks kind o* queer, it 
seems to me, your comin' here this way. But I don't 
s'pose you care if it does make talk. Mebbe that's 
what you're up to. 

Angie. Mrs. Dill ! 

( ^jc/V Lobelia, l., with suspicious glances at \'S>k^Y.\..^ 

Mrs. D. Oh, I s'pose it ain't none o* my business, but ap- 
pearances speak for themselves. I'll be goin'. (r., to 
Isabel, as she goes out.) But I want y' to understand 
you couldn't make me believe anything against Seth 
Barrett — not if y' swore to it on a stack of Bibles 's — 
's high as the church steeple. 

(^Exit, R., with a determined air, her head up.) 

Isabel. Your brother seems to have some very earnest 
champions. Miss Barrett. I should judge he is about 
the most popular man in this vicinity. 

Angie. I suppose he is, but — 1 don't see what good it does 
him. Running for office against a man like Mr. Conant 

is only a means of getting into hot water. That man 

Excuse me, 1 know I shouldn't say anything. Did you 
say you wish to see my brother — on business ? 

Isabel. Y-yes; but that can wait. Tell me about this 
man — this David Conant — is he so — so terrible? 
Hasn't he a right to win, if it's in his power ? 

{She has taken the chair Angie has offered her, and is 
seated R. ; Angie stands l. c.) 

Angie. Why, of course he has ; but he ought to play fair. 
He'd resort to any means. Hasn't he — but I forgot, I 
wasn't to talk. Seth told me girls have no right to talk 
politics, and that I shouldn't express opinions. He 
never says a word against Mr. Conant himself — he isn't 
that kind. 

Isabel. Your brother isn't ? 

Angie. Of course he isn't. He's too honorable. Why, I 
don't believe Seth could do a mean or a dishonorable 
act. He'd rather get beaten, ten times over, than do 
anything underhanded to win. And just see what it 
means to him — this running for office — with Mr. Co- 

55 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



nant forbidding Helen even to speak to him, when they 
were the same as engaged. Oh, it's just terrible, and 
I — I wish he'd give it up. Helen's worth a hundred 
offices, and — and she's just breaking her heart, too, 
and Oh, dear ! {Cries.') 

Isabel. So Mr. Conant's daughter is your brother's sweet- 
heart — and her father forbids Ah, I see. That 

complicates matters, doesn't it ? {J^i'ses.) And your 
brother keeps up the fight, even against such odds, and 
with so much at stake — simply because he thinks it his 
duty? I didn't understand all that. He must be 
brave, as well as upright and honest, as you say. 

Angie. Brave? I guess he is. Oh, if you knew him, 
you'd love him — no — I didn't mean just that ! — 1 
meant you'd see — well, of course he's my brother, 

and Why, Helen ! {^Enter Helen, l. ; she is 

very pale and falters as she sees Isabel. Angie goes 
to her, assisting her to chair, l. c. Isabel looks at 
her rather curiously, but not unkindly.') This is Miss 
Conant — Helen Conant — Miss ? 

Isabel. Underwood. {To Helen, with courtesy.) I am 
pleased to meet you. Miss Conant. I believe I have 
met your father. 

Helen [rising as she is introduced). Perhaps. I — I 
think I have heard of you 

Isabel. Through him ? 

Helen. My father ? Oh, no. Miss Underwood ; not 
through him. I — I think it was Mr. Spencer. 

Isabel. Spencer ? I don't think 

Angie {not pleased at the suggestio7i). Mr. Spencer ? Do 
you know Alan Spencer, Miss Underwood ? I didn't 
think he knew any such — any — actresses ! 

Isabel {laughing, somewhat constrainedly). Oh, — "ac- 
tresses " ! I suppose you think they are terrible crea- 
tures. M'm — well, perhaps they are, seme of them. 
But don't you think it is possible there are exceptions ? 

Angie. I — why, I suppose there are — of course. I — I 
didn't mean anything, really I didn't. You see, I 
don't believe we are quite accountable for what we say 
or do, these days — some of us — we are so all worked 
up, and everything. At least I'm not, and as for 
Helen here, — poor girl, I guess she's been through 
enough, and — goodness knows, it is-.'t all over yet. 

S6 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Isabel. I am sorry if you are in distress, Miss Conant. I 
— pardon me, but I — is it because of your father — and 
Mr. Barrett ? 

Helen. Y-yes. Father says — he says I must never 

(Pauses, as if afraid of saying too much.) 

Angie {goi7ig a?id standing by her). Yes, her father is 
angry at my brother, because he's running for the 
office he wants, and he's mean enough — well, don't 
you think it's mean ? — to try and separate him and 
Helen, just for revenge. Why, he even locked Helen 
up — made a prisoner of her — but she got out and ran 
away and came here. If her father finds her, I don't 
know what' 11 happen 

Isabel (Jo Helen). Why, my child, you shouldn't have 
done that. You are only making matters worse. Don't 
you know it ? You should go back home at once, 
before your father finds out you are here 

Angie. That's just what I told her 

Helen (rising — ivith some spirit). Oh, it's easy enough 
for you to talk, but if you had it to bear, I guess you 
would rebel, too. He has no right to treat me so — as 
if I were a mere child and had no right to choose for 
myself. But I don't care — I shall not give Seth up — I 
will see him ; and I won't go home — no, I won't — and 
be treated like a — like a — slave ! I'd rather die ! 

Angie. Why, Helen dear, you mustn't get so excited. 
You'll be sick. 

Isabel {to Angie). Will you let me speak to her — alone? 

Angie. I 

Isabel. Oh, you may trust her with me, — even if I am 
an — ** actress." 

Angie. Oh, — why, of course (^Goes -l.) 

Isabel. Just for a moment. You may come right back. 

Angie. All right. 

(Exit, l.) 

Isabel (after regarding Helen for a moment, silently, her 
face somewhat softe?ied). So your father has separated 
you from your — from the man you love. Miss Conant — 
and that man is Seth Barrett. 

Helen {surprised, with a trace of indignation). " Seth ? " 
Do you know him — as well as that ? 

Isabel. Pardon me. It was a slip ; because I hear every- 

57 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



body else around here call him that, I suppose. May 
I ask — I suppose it is an impertinent question, but I 
should like to know — if you are^-or were — engaged to 
him ? 

Helen. Yes. I — had a ring {holding up ha7id), but — 
my father took it from my finger; he said he would 
give it back to Seth, and that — that I must never see 
or speak to him again, 

Isabel. And yet you disobeyed him, and came here ? 

Helen. Yes. I had to. I love Seth too much to give 
him up — even for my father, when he is so cruel, so 
unjust. He has no right 

Isabel. And does Seth — pardon me, Mr. Barrett — encour- 
age you in going against your father ? 

Helen. Oh, no ; he told me to obey him, to wait. He 
thinks after election — after 

Isabel. Ah, I see. He is thinking of his own interests, 
of the effect it might have if your father circulated the 
report that he had stolen his daughter 

Helen. Don't you say that, if you mean to imply that 
Seth isn't all that is good and honorable. He wouldn't 
do anything wrong — he couldn't. 

Isabel. But, my dear, do you believe that any man — any 
mere man — could be perfect ? Do you think there is 
one living — even your wonderful Mr. Seth — who has 
no faults, who never has done anything that he would 
prefer the world — or some one little woman — should 
never know ? 

Helen. I know Seth Barrett never could do anything that 
would make me stop loving him. I know that. 1 
don't care what he did — what he had done — even if it 
was not just — ^just right — I — I should still love him. 

Isabel. But — if you found out that you were not the first 
— that there had been another girl, once, to whom he 
made love — who 

Helen. I wouldn't care. I know he loves me now, and I 
love him and trust him. What if there was another 
girl, once, — though I don't believe there ever was — 
why — do you suppose I should hold that against him, 
if he has forgotten her, and found out that it's — it's 
me he loves, after all, instead of her? 

Isabel. But if he had deceived you — if he had never told 
you about her 

S8 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Helen. I wouldn't care. Why should he ? If he told 
me he loved me now, and 1 believed him — as I do ! — 
that would be enough for me. Because I love him, 
too — don't you see ? And what is love worth, if — if it 
isn't that kind ? 

{She is very much i?i earliest, and Isabel shows that she is 
impressed by her words and her attitude, her manner, 
which at first was somewhat hard and ufisympatlietic, 
begifinijig to change. She seems to admire Helen, to 
sympathize with her, and to want to help her.) 

Isabel. My dear, you're a — a prize worth having. And 

now I want you to come with me. 
Helen. With you ? Why, — where ? 
Isabel. Home. 
Helen. Your — to your home ? 
Isabel {almost sadly, shaking her head). No ; I am afraid 

I have no — no place you would really call the one 

"there's no place like." No, my dear, to your home. 

Now — at once — before your father finds out that you 

left it, that you have been here. 
Helen. No, no ; I can't go back. 
Isabel. But you must. If you love Seth Barrett, if you 

want to help him and do what is for his good and for 

your own happiness, you must go home, and at once. 

I will take you, and your father need not know that 

you have been gone. 

{Enter Angie, l.) 

Angie. May I come in now ? 

Isabel. Yes. I have just been telling Miss Conant, Miss 
Barrett, that she must go home, at once, and that I will 
take her. Don't you think it is the best thing for her 
to do? 

Angie. Yes. I told her it was. Yes, Helen dear, you 
must do it. I know how hard it is for you, but you 
must — for Seth's sake — for your own. 

Helen. Y-yes, I — I see. I suppose I was wrong; I 
shouldn't have come, and I will go back. Even if 
father finds out I have been here, I will beg his for- 
giveness, and — and perhaps it will come out all right. 
I can wait. Yes, for Seth I can wait — I will — if it is 
for a thousand years ! 

59 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



(She has brightened up, gained courage, and sf?iiies hope- 
fully. Angie is by her side, preparing her to go, 
Isabel leads the way toward r.) 

Angie. That's right, dear. 

Isabel. And spoken like a brave, noble girl. And I am 
sure you will never regret it. Come. 

(JShe goes to R. with Helen, Angie close to them, when 
Alan rushes in r. , aiid they start back in surprise. ) 

Angie. Why — Alan ! 

Alan (glancing at Helen, then turnifig to Isabel, with a 
denunciatory manner'). Ah ! — you ! How dare you 
come here and talk to these innocent girls ? 

Isabel. What do you mean, sir ? How dare you speak to 
me like this ? 

Angie. Alan — why, Alan, do you know her ? 

(Helen sinks into chair near table L. c. Alan is R. C. ; 
Isabel and Angie, l.) 

Alan. Yes, I know her. I thought I recognized her the 
other day, and now I know who she is. 1 have seen 
her picture — in a theatrical paper — in tights ! 

Isabel (smilifig, and biting her lips, le?iiently, but with a 
trace of sarcasm). That is indeed a terrible accusa- 
tion, Mr. — Spencer, I believe? However, it has noth- 
ing to do with the question, just now 

Alan. I think it has, when I find you here talking to these 
two young ladies. You are no fit associate for them, 
and I shall tell Mr. Barrett, and Miss Conant's father, 
that I have heard of you, and that what I have heard is 
not to your credit 

Isabel. If you have any accusations to make against me, 
this is not the time nor place to do it. At present there 
is something else to think about. It is essential that 
Miss Conant should go home as quickly as possible, and 
I have volunteered to take her there. 

(Isabel is r. ; Alan, c. ; Angie and Helen, l. c.) 

Alan. You needn't put yourself out. 1 think Miss Conant 
will permit me to act as her escort. 

(^Crosses, looking questioningly at Helen.) 
60 



THE VILLAGE LA WYER 



Helen {regarding him somewhat coldly and crossing to 
Isabel). Thank you ; but — I — I will accept Miss Un- 
derwood's offer. 

(Alan looks at her in surprise ^ somewhat crestfallen. ) 

Angie (Jnc lifted to rese?it the snub thus given Alan). Why, 

Helen, I should think 

Isabel {with a glatice of veiled triumph at Alan). Then 

shall we go at once. Miss Conant ? 
Helen {with her toward r.). Yes. 

{Enter Seth, r. ; he shows surprise as he sees Isabel and 
Helen.) 

Seth. Miss Underwood — you here? And Helen ! 

Helen {going to him). Oh, Seth, I was so miserable, and 
I ran away. But I will go back. I will obey my father, 
and wait. I know now that it will be for the best. 

Seth. Yes, dear. 

{He smiles at her encouragingly, then looks at Isabel 
questioningly.) 

Isabel. I came here hoping to see you, Mr. Barrett, 
and 

Helen. It was she who advised me to go home, to obey 
my father, and to wait. 

Seth. I fail to understand. Miss Underwood, why you 
should have anything to say in the matter, or interest 
yourself in our affairs. I think, under the circumstances 
— the less we have to say to each other, the better. 

{The door-bell rings loudly.) 

Angie {she and Alan are l.). Why, Seth, who can that 

be? 
Helen. My father ! 
Seth. Never mind, dear ; be brave. It will be all right. 

{Enter Lobelia, l., crossing to R.) 

Lobelia. Laws o' mussy, sutt'nly am some busy times 
'round yuh dis ebenin'. 

{Exit, R.) 

Helen. Oh, Seth, I am sorry. I am to blame 

6i 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



{He comforts her. Exeunt Alan and Angie, l. Isabel 
is R. ; Seth, c. ; Helen, l. c.) 

{Enter David, ^., followed by Lobelia, who goes to l., and 
stands listeni?ig.) 

David {down to c). I have come for my daughter. 
{Sees Helen.) Ah, — I thought so. (Crosses to 
Helen, seizes her arm or wrist roughly.) Come 
with me. 

Helen. Yes, father. 

David {to Seth). I knew she was here all the time. 
Pretty work you're up to. But you'll find what it 
means to entice a girl away from her home and en- 
courage her to go against her own father. 

{Exit Lobelia, l.) 

Seth. You don't understand, Mr. Conant. You wrong 

me. But I think another time 

David. No — now. You are harboring my daughter against 

my wishes, and I'll make you suffer for it. ( To Helen.) 

Come. 
Isabel. Wait. I have something to say. I was here, 

and 

David. Yes, I see you're here, and I'd like to know what 

for — in his house. Things look mighty queer to me, 

and I guess when this gets out — h'm 

(Sneers, with a kjiowing smile of gloating triumph.) 

Seth. You are on the wrong tack, 'squire. If you will 
calm down a little 

David. Oh, there'll be plenty of time to calm down, don't 
you fear ; and I guess when it comes out that you have 
this woman here, and that you lured my daughter away 
from home 

Helen {advancing to front, forgetting her fear and facing 
hi7n indignantly). Father ! You mustn't speak of Seth 
like that. It's not true — not a word of it — and I won't 
let you accuse him of such things. He didn't lure me 
here. I came of my own accord, when he didn't know 
it, and after he had told me to stay home and obey you. 
I came because I couldn't stand your hardness — yes, 
your cruelty — and you shan't accuse him. If you do— 
62 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



if you treat him like this — I shall never go home — never 
— I don't care what you do to me. 

David {who has been stariiig at her, for a momejit too sur- 
prised and angry to speak). You — how dare you speak 
to me Hke this ? I'll teach you. I'll show you whether 

you can defy me {Goes, again seizes her, and 

attempts to draw her toward r.) Come. 

Isabel {stepping in front of door r., barring his way). 
Wait. I said I have something to say, and now you 
shall listen to me. 

(Helen has separated herself froin David, now stands c. ; 
David, r. c. ; Isabel ^,?/i- between them. Seth, l. c.) 

{Enter Alan, l.) 

David. You ! How dare you touch my daughter, a woman 
like you ? 

Isabel. Be careful. Don't go too far. A woman like me 
generally knows what she is doing, and she isn't afraid 
of — a — man — like — you ! 

David {scor7ifully). Ha ! 

Alan {cofnifig to c). I can tell you what sort of woman 
she is, Mr. Conant. I've heard of her, I've seen her 
pictures. She is an actress — an adventuress— a no- 
torious woman. Ask her— ask her if she can deny it. 

Isabel {looking at him disdainfully, but with slightly amused 
indulgence). Oh, you poor boy ! You mean all 
right. But never mind. I deny nothing. It isn't 
worth while. I see— there's no chance for a—'' a 
woman like me." {Goes to r.) Oh, very well. But 
you might ask him {indicating David)— him— if he 
doesn't know who I am, and what I am — ha !— and 
why I am here ! That's all— for the present. Good- 
night. 

{Gives them all a sweeping glance, which dwells with an in- 
stant's tenderness on Helen, then, with her head up, 
haughtily exits r. The others look at her in silence, 
amazed; Helen, as if in protest, starts toward s^., but 
David stops her.) 

David. Here — see here ! Are you going to stay here — 
with him — or are you coming with me ? Remember, if 
you stay now, you can never cross my threshold again 
— I'm done with you. Which shall it be ? 

63 



TEE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Helen. Why, father, I 

{She falters, shrinks from him and approaches Seth and 
looks pleadingly at him. He stands c. , regarding her 
compassionately, but in silence, offering her no en- 
couragement. She pauses, clasps her hands, again 
looks at Seth, tur?is, bows her head, as if in resigna- 
tion, then raises it zuith sojne show of spirit and deter- 
mination, and exits R. , without looking back. Enter 
Angie l., in time to witness above, followed by 
Lobelia, who stands up l., raises her hands, mutter- 
ing " Laws o' mussy ! " etc. Alan and Angie l. c. ; 
Seth, c. , David r. c. David gives Seth a triumphant 
look and is about to speak, when the latter silences him^ 
throwing off his air of submissio7i and turning upon 
David with fierce denunciation.') 

Seth. And now, David Conant, you may go ! This is my 
house, and there is no room in it for you. You have 
accused me of things of which you know I am inno- 
cent, you have tried to use your daughter to coerce and 
intimidate me, you have hired that woman to come 
here and rake up some story against me — but I tell you 
I'm not afraid of you, of her, nor of anybody. (David 
attempts to speak, but Seth shuts him off.) I despise 
you and your lies — your low, underhanded methods 
— and I defy you. I'll win my fight, I'll win your 
daughter, fairly and squarely, in spite of you — in spite 
of everything. But I want nothing more to do with 
you. Go, I say ! Go — go ! 

(David, livid ivith rage, has been trying to speak, but Seth 
has overwhelmed a?id silenced him, forcing hitn to door^ 
and finally off r., shutting door after him and standing 
with his back against it, with flashing eyes and set 
face. He is oblivious to the others, who sta?id h., re- 
garding him, Alan and Angie so77iewhat dismayed, but 
with admiration ; "Lobi^iak holding up hands and wr if ig- 
ing them, muttering to herself.) 



curtain 



64 



ACTIV 

SCENE. — Smne as Acts I and II, the next forenoon. Dis- 
cover Mrs. D., seated r. ; Lobelia seated x.., fanning 
herself with large palm leaf fan. Seth is at desk, 
looking under papers, in drawers, etc. 

Mrs. D. Land, Lobelia, you warm ? I don't think it's so 

awful hot. 
Lobelia. Ah does. On mah way to de sto', 'n' got so 

het up Ah jes' had t' stop yuh fo' minute 'n' res' mah- 

se'f. {Looks at Seth.) Wha' yo' done look'n' fo', 

Mass' Seff? 
Seth. Some letters I seem to have mislaid. Perhaps 

Dan (^Leans out of window ; calls.) Dan ! 

Dan, come here a minute. 
Mrs. D. Seems t' me that boy don't tend t' business much 

t' speak of. Nice lawyer he'll make. 
Seth. Oh, Dan's a bright youngster, all right; but boys 

will be boys, you know, Mrs. Dill. 
Mrs. D. Yes, 'n' most of 'em '11 be nuisances. 

(^Enter Dan, v.. , flushed with exercise.) 

Dan. Want me, Mr. Barrett ? 

Seth. Yes ; if you can spare a moment from that ball game. 

Have you seen anything of two or three letters I left 

here yesterday ? 
Dan (alarmed, but trying to hide his co?fusiojt). L-let- 

ters? 
Seth. Yes, letters. There was one in particular that I 

wouldn't have certain parties get hold of for a thousand 

dollars — — 
Mrs. D. Land, that must have be'n an important one. 
Seth. It was — and is. I'm afraid somebody picked them 

up, and if they did, and that one 

(^He continues searching; Mrs. D. and Lobelia rise and 
Join search.) 

65 



THE VILLAGE LA WYER 



Dan. Mebbe they fell in the waste-basket. 
(^Looks ifi basket) 

Seth. I don't see how they could. Now, let — me — 

see Conant was here. Con ant — Ferguson — 

that — by Jove, I wonder if she 

Mrs. D. You mean that actress? I wouldn't put it past 

her. 
Dan. Oh, she didn't take 'em — not those ones. 
Seth. How do you know she didn't ? What do you know 

about it — eh? 
Dan. N-nothing, Mr. Barrett. That is, I mean — y' see, I 

was here, 'n' — I mean I was out there, lookin' in the 

window, and — and if she'd took 'em 

Seth. I don't suppose she did. Run along and finish 

your game. Maybe they're at the house. 
Lobelia. Ah didn' see nuffin ob 'em. 

(Dan lingers by door, as if wafitifig to speak, but looks at 
Mrs. D. a?td Lobelia doubtfully, hesitates, the?i exits 
R. Seth rises, about to go.') 

Seth. I'll go home and look once more. They must be 

there. Anything you wanted to see me about, especially, 

Mrs. Dill ? 
Mrs. D. No, they ain't. Jest dropped in t' 'nquire about 

politics. 
Seth. Oh, that's it ? No more — er — legal business, then ? 
Mrs. D. No. He's doin' pretty well lately. Good land, 

he'd jump over the barn t' please me, if I wanted him 

to. 
Lobelia. Don' b'lebe he could do it. 
Mrs. D. Wal, he'd try. 
Seth. That would be quite a feat. 
Lobelia. Feet ? Ah reckon it'd take wings. He ! he ! 

Guess it gwine be some time fo' yo' Sam Dill gits wings ! 
Mrs. D. Wal, I guess he'll be an angel as soon as you 

will. 
Seth. I hope so. We can't spare Lobelia yet a while. 

{Going.) If anybody asks for me, tell them I'll be right 

back. I must go and look for that letter. 
Lobelia (rising). Ah'll come raight 'long 'n' help, soon's 

Ah be'n t' dat sto'. 

66 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Seth. Don't hurry. I won't need any help. {About to 
go off R., pauses.') Why — m'm — here comes Miss 
Underwood. {Crosses to l.) Think I'll skip out this 
other way. Don't care to see her just now. 

{Exit quickly, l.) 

Mrs. D. {looking off r.). Yes, here she comes — that 

actress. I wonder what she wants here. 
Lobelia {rising, looking off). Laws o' mussy, is she? 

Ah reckon Ah' 11 be gwine 'long. 
Mrs. D. Huh ! I guess I wouldn't let her scare me. 

Stay 'n' see what she's got t' say. Mebbe we c'n find 

out what she's up to. 

{Enter Isabel r. ; she pauses up r. c. ; Mrs. D. is c, 
Lobelia l. c.) 

Isabel. Oh, — good -morning. I was looking for Mr. Bar- 
rett. Isn't he in ? 

Mrs. D. Don't seem t' be. I guess if he was you'd see 
him. Seems t' me you have a good deal of business 
at the lawyer's office. 

Isabel. Why, — er — if I have ? Isn't that what lawyers' 
offices are for ? 

Mrs. D. Oh ! I s'pose they be. 

Lobelia. He ! he ! Mebbe yo' wants a d'vo'ce ? 

{Looks meaningly at Mrs. D.) 

Mrs. D. You needn't fling out. It ain't everybuddy 't's 
got a husband t' git divorced from. {To Isabel.) 
Of course, it ain't none o' my business what you're 
here^ for, 'n' I ain't one o' the pryin' kind, but — well, 
it's makin' consid'able talk, 'n' I d' know but it's my 
duty t* tell y', 'f y' don't know, that Dave Conant's 
doin' everything in his power, no matter how low it is, 
t' beat Seth Barrett, 'n' it looks like he was usin' you 
as a tool. I hope it ain't with your consent. If it is— - 
well, I reckon you can guess my opinion ! 

Isabel {down r.). Thank you for the warning, Mrs. — m'm 
— Dill. But let me assure, I am nobody's *' tool," and 
— I am on Seth — Mr. — Barrett's side. 

Mrs. D. You want him to win ? 

Isabel. I do. Yes, — with all my heart. 

67 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Lobelia. Does yo', honey? Does yo' mean it? 

Isabel. Yes, I mean it. And I think I have a trick up 
my sleeve that will do it, too. 

Lobelia. Up yo' sleeve ? Laws o* mussy ! (^Examines 
Isabel's ^/^^z/,?.) VVharisit? 

Isabel Qaughi?ig). It's there, all right. Just you wait. 
I have an appointment with Mr. Barrett here, at eleven 
o'clock, and I sent word for Mr. Conant to be here at 
a quarter past. If you want to come back, say about a 
quarter of twelve or thereabouts, perhaps you'll be sur- 
prised. 

Mrs. D. Come back ? I see. That means you want us 
t'go? 

Isabel. N-o, I didn't mean that exacdy. But — if you 
would, you see 

Mrs. D. Well, I d' know what you're up to, 'n' I ain't 
got much faith in — actresses — from what I've heard 
tell of 'em, but — we'll go. Won't we. Lobelia? 

Lobelia. Reckon we will. Ah's got t', anyhow. Got t' 
go to de sto'. Gwine stop on mah way back, dough, 
t' see 'bout dat s' prise. (^To Isabel, wantily, as she 
goes up.) Don' car' 'f yo' is a' actress, missy, Ah 
kind o' laks de way yo' talks. 'N' Ah's jes' a-dyin', 
Ah is, t' see what 'tis yo' got up dat sleebe. 

(^Exit, R.) 

Mrs. D. She ain't got any too much sense. But then, 
what can y' expect? Well, I'll be goin' too, seein' 
you're s' anxious for me to. I hope you mean what y' 
say, 'n' the way folks are talk in 'ain't the truth 

Isabel. So they are talking, are they ? And nothing very 
complimentary about me, I dare say. 

Mrs. D. Oh, I wouldn't say that, exactly. I guess you've 
had compliments enough, 's fur's that goes — especially 
from the men — but — well, seein' you come here 'n' 
had dealin's with Dave Conant 'n' — well, as I said, I 
ain't one of the pryin' kind, 'n' I don't meddle in other 
folks' business — but of course, folks will talk, 'n' all. 
But I'm willin' t' give y' the benefit of the doubt, as 
the sayin' goes. 

Isabel. Thank you. 

(Isabel is up c, by desk. Mrs. D., about to go out r., 

meets Sam, as he enters.) 

68 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Mrs. D. Why, Sam Dill, what you doin' here? I thought 
1 left you home, shellin' peas ? 

Sam. Got 'era all shelled, 'n' thought I'd come 'n' look for 
you. Lonesome. 

Mrs. D. The idee ! It's a pity if I can't be out of your 
sight five minutes 't you don't have t' look me up. 

Sam. More 'n half an hour, Janey dear, 'n' I b'gun t' 
think mebbe somethin' 'd happened to y*. 

Mrs. D. Good land, what could happen? You make me 
p'rvoked. (^To Isabel.) That's jest the way he acts, 
sence we made up the last time. Tags me around like 
he was afraid I'd git stole. I d'clare, I d' know but 
too much love 's worse 'n not enough. 

Isabel {smilifig). I'm sure you ought to be thankful for 
such a devoted husband, Mrs. Dill, and appreciate him. 
What if some woman not so fortunate should steal him 
away from you ? 

Sam. Yes, Jane ; think o' that. 

Mrs. D. I ain't worryin'. I guess they'd soon be willin' 
t' give y* back. But I'd like t' see some woman try 
it ! She'd find out that Sam Dill ain't the hull fam'ly, 
*n' 't she'd have me t' reckon with. (^Going.) Come 
on, Sam; if y' don't, I might git kidnapped. 

{Exit, R.) 

Sam. All right, Jane, I'm a-comin'. {Pauses r.) Fine 
woman, my Jane; but kind o' touchy. Have t' be 
careful not t' rub her the wrong way. Loves me, 
though ; know she does. 

Isabel. Yes, Mr. Dill, I am sure she does. And I can see 
that you love her, too. But, do you know, it isn't al- 
ways best to let a woman know she's too sure of you. 

Sam. Guess Jane knows she's sure o' me, all right. 

Isabel. That's just it. Don't neglect her, but don't let 
all the love making come from your side 

Sam. 'F I didn't, I guess mebbe they wouldn't be none. 
You don't know Jane. 

(Mrs. D. appears r., out of breath.) 

Mrs. D. Good land, Sam Dill, ain't you ever comin' ? It 
don't look none too well, hangin' back here t' talk to 
another woman. 

69 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Sam. Sure, Jane, I'm a-comin'. {Goes R.) Jest savin' 
good-bye t' this lady. {To Isabel.) Good-bye, 
Miss; hope t' see y' agin. 

{Exity R.) 

Mrs. D. Oh, y' do, eh? Well, we'll see about that. 
The idee ! 

( Tosses her head and exits r. , ifidignatiily. Isabel laughs ; 
goes to window, looking out. E7iter Alan and 
Angie r.) 

Isabel (coming to c.'). Good-morning. 

Alan (bowing, rather distantly). Isn't Mr. Barrett here? 

Isabel. No 

Angie. Good-morning, Miss Underwood. We just 
dropped in to see Seth a minute. Making plans 
for a picnic, you know, and I've been teasing Seth 
to go. He declares he can't — says he has picnic 
enough on his hands as it is. But I tell him it would 
distract his mind — and goodness knows he has enough 
to worry him. I think he ought to go. Don't you, 
Alan? 

Alan. I suppose he knows best about what he can do, and 

being a lawyer and running for office Of course, 

we want him to go, but I don't suppose he is in just 
the spirit for such things. ( Goes tip, looks out of 
window.) I wonder where he is. 

Angie (tip by his side, also looking out). I can't imagine. 
There's Dan. Ask him. (Calls.) Dan ! Dan ! 
Where's Seth? Oh, he doesn't hear me. I'll run out 
and ask him. (Goes v^.^ He ought to know. 

(Exit, R.) 

Isabel (to Alan, who sta7tds by window, ignoring her). 
Mr. Spencer, I — I have been wishing for a chance to 
have a word with you. 

Alan (turning, coolly). Well? 

Isabel. I know you haven't a very good opinion of me, 
and that you think I am here for no good purpose, but 
I mean to prove to you that you are mistaken. Since I 
came I have had my eyes opened, I have seen what 
real love and trust are, or may be, and I — I — well, I 

70 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



have changed, somehow. I want to do something 
right — something good — and I want you to help me. 
Will you ? 

Alan {who has cot7ie dow7i, much ifiterested as she pro- 
gresses y and with a softeiied manner). AVhy, yes, of 
course I will, Miss Underwood, if what you say is 
true; if you will tell me what I can do, and how. 
But 1 don't understand. 

Isabel. Of course you don't, and there isn't time for an 
explanation now. {Looks about, anxiously.) But I 
assure you, I promise you you will not be sorry. 
What I want you to do is to go and get Miss Conant 
and bring her here, as soon as possible 

Alan. Bring her here — Miss Conant? But why — what 
for? 

Isabel. That's where you must trust me. Just go, bring 
her, unknown to anybody, and produce her when I 
give you the signal. {Looks l.) Isn't there another 
room there? 

Alan {going and looking off l.). Yes. 

Isabel. And another outside entrance ? 

Alan. Yes. 

Isabel. Good. Keep her in there till I tell her to appear. 

Alan. But if she won't come ? She has promised 

her father, you know 



Isabel. Tell her it means her happiness — and his 

Alan. Mr. Barrett's ? 

Isabel. Yes. And she will come. Go now; there is no 
time to lose. 

{Enter Angie, r.) 

Angie. Come on, Alan. Guess we'd better be going. 
Alan. All right. {To Isabel, close to her.) M'm — may 

I tell her ? {Indicates Angie.) 
Isabel. Of course. Take her with you. 
Angie {inclined to be jealous). Well, if you don't want to 

come 

Alan. Of course I do. (Goes up.) I have something to 

tell you. 
Angie. H'm ! I should hope so ! 

{Tosses her head, with a suspicious glance at Isabel; he 
urges her out, reassuringly.) 

71 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Alan. Now, that's all right. I'll explain, and 

Angie. Yes, but I don't see 

{They go off r. Isabel by windozv, looking out. She 
should seem somewhat changed from previous act, hav- 
ing a more wofnanly and synipathetic maniier, except 
at times iii her attitude toward David. After pause, 
enter David, K.,folloiued by James.) 

David. Oh, you're here — alone ? Glad of it. Time we 
had a little talk. 

Isabel {down to c). I quite agree with you, Mr. Conant. 
It is. 

James. Seems t' me it's time something was done. Every- 
thing's going Seth Barrett's way. 

David. No such thing. Just a little spurt. There's the 
whole county to hear from, and I guess I haven't lost 
my hold yet. But see here, Miss Underwood, I didn't 
like the way you acted yesterday, and as for Barrett — 
well, the upstart actually turned me out of his house. 

He defies me — says he'll win in spite of me, and 

Huh ! I'd like to see him. But there's no time to 
lose. When you going to turn that little trick ? 

Isabel. Soon, Mr. Conant, — soon, I assure you ; quite as 
soon as you possibly can desire. 

David. Well, the sooner the better. Of course, I'm not 
afraid, but — well, if you intend to earn that money 

James. That's what I say. All I hear is, *'Seth Barrett, 
Seth Barrett," as if he was the greatest thing that ever 
happened. I tell you, it looks as if he 

David. Oh, give us a rest. Nobody wants your opinion. 
Besides, it's nothing but a lot of women and old fogies 
he's got on his side. 

James. Maybe you think so. But I hear lots of talk, and 
if it wasn't for this lady here, and what she can do to 
turn things against him — well, all I've got to say is, 
you'd better get a hustle on. 

David. Oh, shut up. Wait till the time comes and see 
what happens. 

James. Yes, but what happens may not be just what'U suit 
you, Dave Conant. 

David. Oh, shut up. Do you think you can scare me? 
Now, Miss Underwood, I want to know what you in- 
tend to do. 

72 



THE VILLAGE LA WYEB 



Isabel. M'm — well, — if I may speak to you alone for a 

moment ? ( Glances at James.) 
David. Sure. Jim, you go outside and take a smoke. 
James. Oh, all right ! Seein' you're so blamed secret 

[Exit, R.) 

David. Now, what is it ? Speak up. Somebody may 
come any minute. 

Isabel. It won't take me long to say what I have to say. 
I just want to tell you that I've changed my mind 

David. Changed your mind ? 

Isabel. Yes. A woman's privilege, you know. 

David. You I don't understand. 

Isabel. I mean just this, Mr. Conant, that since I came 
here I have had my eyes opened. I'm — well, I'm not 
the same woman you saw in New York — the one you 
hired to lend herself to your schemes, with such glow- 
ing promises. Oh, I know — I agreed — I wanted money, 
and it looked like an easy way to get it. But money 
isn't everything, Mr. Conant, and I've found out there's 
something else far better and more worth while. I've 
seen what true manhood is, and also what pure, sweet 
young womanhood is, and what it means to have a 
good and noble man love you. I've never had that 
experience, but — well, I don't mean to help cheat some 
other woman out of it. 

David. Oh, what's all this about, anyway? What's got 
into you ? You want more money ? 

Isabel. No, I don't want money — not your money. I 
want my self-respect and the good opinion of those 
who, because of my association with you, think me bad 
and unscrupulous. I'm not — I'm not bad — I don't 
mean to be — but I haven't had a chance 1 But I have 
a chance now to do a good act, and I mean to do it. 
I mean to make you treat your daughter the way she 
deserves to be treated, David Conant, and to stand no 
longer in the way of her happiness. I mean to see you 
give her to the man she loves 



David. Are you crazy ? You think 

Isabel. I think you will tell your daughter that she may 

be Seth Barrett's wife, and tell him that you give your 

consent. 

73 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



David. What's got into you? You came here under an 
agreement to expose Barrett's past, to disgrace him 
and put him out of the race against me. That's what 
I promised to pay you for, and now — now you tell me 
I must Ha ! you must be crazy. I don't under- 
stand what's put any such notion into your head, 
but whatever it was, you might as well get it out again. 
You needn't think you can scare me with your lofty 
talk and your high notions. No, — ma'am ! 

Isabel. What put it into my head, David Conant, was 
your own daughter — that poor, unhappy and misused 
girl, who trembles at her own father's name and hides 
herself when she hears him coming. That's the kind 
of father you are — a tyrant — a man who, for his own 
selfish ends, would break his own daughter's heart ! 
But 1 tell you, you shan't do it ! 

David. You ! You, — what can you do ? You'd better 
attend to your own affairs, if you know when you're 
well off. What are you ? Ha I 

Isabel. We'll let that pass. Just now I have only this to 
say — you will give your consent to your daughter's 
marriage to Seth Barrett, and give him a fair and 
square deal in this political business — or I will tell all 
I know about you — how you heard in some way that I 
had known Mr. Barrett years ago, when he was nothing 
but a silly young boy infatuated with an actress who 
took advantage of his greenness and almost made a fool 
of him. But it didn't amount to anything — he was 
innocent, he never did anything that he need be afraid 
to have the whole world know 

David. But you said you had letters — you led me to think 
that you — that he 

Isabel. I saw your scheme, David Conant, and that you 
were an unprincipled man, equal to any villainy to 
carry your own point — and I met your cunning with 
some of my own. And I mean to show you up good 
and plenty, if you don't do what's right. 

David. Pshaw ! Go ahead. What can you do ? 

Isabel. I can go to your opponents — to the newspapers — 
and tell them the plot to ruin Seth Barrett, and how 
you promised to pay me five hundred dollars to enter 

into the conspiracy, and Oh, I can do plenty, 

and you know it. I don't mean to — I don't want to — 

74 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



if you agree to what I ask. Otherwise — well, leave it 
to me. 

David. You wouldn't dare do it. Nobody would believe 
you, if you did. (^He caimot quite conceal the fact that 
he is ivorried, but tries to bluff her.') A woman of 

your stamp — who had agreed to Pshaw, you're 

just trying to follow your trade and be theatrical; but 
you can't scare me. 

Isabel. Very well. But as sure as I stand here, I mean 
it, and you haven't money enough to stop me, if you 
refuse to do what I say. I believe you would sell your 
soul for money and power — to rule — to have others 
under your heel. But I've had my eyes opened, I see 
through you, and I mean to do a little bit toward put- 
ting you down a peg or two where you belong. 

David \be ginning to hedge ^ but still putting on an air of 
defiance). What do you intend to do — what do you 
flatter yourself you can do ? 

Isabel. I told you. What I can tell will make good read- 
ing, and will help destroy what chance you have of 
winning the office you are so bound to have. {She 
stands where she can see out of window y and noiv sees 
Alan and Angie, with Helen, pass fro?n r. to l. 
They merely glance in and hurry past window. David 
does not see them.') What is your decision ? 

David. You have it. 

{Enter James, r.) 

James. Say, what's all this about? I'm tired of waiting. 
When you coming, 'squire? 

David. Now. (Goes r.) Now, Jim. But first I want 
you to look at this woman here. Do you see her ? 

James. Sure I do. {Looks at Isabel. ) Think I'm blind ? 

David. You thought she was a pretty sensible sort of 
woman, didn't you? A woman 't knew which side her 
bread was buttered on ? 

James. Why, yes, — sure. Seems to be. 

David. Well, she isn't ; she's a fool — the biggest fool of a 
woman that ever lived. She thinks she can bluff me — 
scare me — and make me do something I don't want to 
do. Don't that prove what a fool she is, Jim Fergu- 
son? You know me, and I guess Ha ! she ain't 

75 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



worth noticing. Come on, Jim. We'll find better 
company and a more profitable way to spend our time. 

(^Gives Isabel a sarcastic, half -defiant look, and exits r. 
James lingers, watcJiing till David is out of sight, then 
goes and speaks to Isabel.) 

James. What's all this about, Miss Underwood ? What's 
up? Haven't had a break with the boss, have you ? 

Isabel. He may be your ''boss," but he isn't mine. 
Thank heaven I have a little self-respect left yet, and it 
isn't too late to prove it. 

James. But I don't understand. Ain't you goin' to carry 
out that little contract ? 

Isabel. No. I still have a contract on hand, but it's not 
that one. Ask him what it is, if you want to know. 

James. What I Do you mean to say you've flopped — gone 
over to the other side ? 

Isabel. Yes, that's what I've done — '' flopped," gone over 
to the side of honesty and decency. 

James. Whew! Well, if women don't beat all ! (^Goes 
R., then comes back to c, near Isabel, speaking confi- 
dentially to her, with a tifuid look off k.) Say, Miss 
Underwood, to tell the truth — m'm — when you come 
right down to it, I don't think any more of him than 
you do. If it wa'n't that I have to watch out and see 
which side my bread's buttered on, why — I'd like to 
see him get it in the neck, myself. (^Goes r.) Think 
he's going to, too, the way things look. You can't tell 
the boss anything — he's so sure of his own power — but 
if Seth Barrett don't come out ahead — well, I'll '*eat 
my hat," as the boys say. 'N' I ain't worrying about 
having to do it, either. 

(^Exit R. Isabel goes r., looking after him, smiling, thefi 
walks l. and meets Alan, as he efiters l.) 

Alan. She's here. Didn't want to come, at first, because 
she had promised to obey her father and wait, but we 
told her she must come, and she did. I hope it comes 
out all right. 

Isabel. I mean that it shall, Mr. Spencer. Trust me. 

Alan {donhtfully, then determinedly'). I — I — will. 

Isabel. Thanks. 

76 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



(Enter Angie, l.) 



Angie. Helen's just about scared to death. She doesn't 
know what to make of it all, and she's so afraid she 
has done wrong coming here, that 1 don't know as I 
can keep her. 

Isabel. I will speak to her. I think I can convince her 
that it is right and for the best. 

{Exit, L.) 

Angie. Dear me, Alan, do you think we've done right? 

Alan. I hope so. I don't know what to think of that 
woman, but she seems sincere, and — well, somehow I 
just had the feeling that she meant all right and that we 
ought to do as she said, and — now I'm going to see it 
through. 

Angie. So am I. But what if it goes wrong, and Seth 
blames us, and — and tells you that you can't — that I 
can't Oh, Alan, what if he does? 

Alan. Now, little pessimist, don't begin to look for trouble 
before it's anywhere in sight. I've had a talk or two 
with that big brother of yours, and I think I have 
nearly convinced him that I'm not the worst fellow in 
the world, and that I may in time prove worthy even 
of — of winning you, you little darling ! 

Angie. Oh, Alan ! 

{He is about to kiss her, but desists suddenly, and she at the 
same time draws away from him, holding up a warn- 
ing finger.) 

Alan. M'm — that's the time I 'most forgot again. We 
promised, didn't we? Well, it's a promise that's all- 
fired hard to keep, that's all I've got to say. 

{Enter Seth, r.) 

Seth. Aha, here you two are again. How does this hap- 
pen 



Alan. Why, you see — we 

Angie. Yes, Seth — you see — we — we came to see if we 
couldn't persuade you to go to the picnic, and — don't 
you think you can, Seth ? We have postponed it, you 
know. 

Alan. Yes, Mr. Barrett, do ! 

77 



TEE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Seth. Pshaw ! You know I can't spend time to go to a 
picnic. Besides, I guess you'd have a better time if 1 
wasn't along. Looks that way to me. 

Alan. Do you mean, Mr. Barrett, that we — that you — ■ 
that you give — your — your — consent ? 

Seth. Consent to what ? That you go on a picnic ? Of 
course. Hope you enjoy it. {Up by desk^ looking 
about.) It's the strangest thing what ever became of 
those letters. Where's Dan ? 

Angie. He was out there playing ball a little while ago. 

Alan {going to Seth, speakifig earnestly , half aside to hint). 
M'm — I've got the ring here, Mr. Barrett. {Feels in 
pocket, taking out diamond engagetnefit ring.') Will you 
let me put it on ? 

Seth. Do you think it'll fit? {Sticks out his finger.) 

Alan. Y-yes, — the finger it's intended for. Eh, Angie? 

Angie. Oh, Alan ! {Looks imploringly at Seth, iii wist- 
ful co?ifusion.) Oh, Seth ! 

Seth. Oh, Angie ! Oh, Alan ! Oh, my ! {Hesitates, 
as if to tease the?n, theft takes Angie' s hatid a?id gives 
it to Alan.) You might try it on — and see! {They 
look at him, in amazed surprise, too happy to speak.) 
Now run along, children ; I have work to (^o. 

(Alan a?id Angie are r. c., Seth up by desk.) 

Alan {as if to kiss Angie, looking at Seth). M'm — 

can I? 
Seth. You look as if you could. I have, lots of times. 

(Alan kisses Angie, just as Lobelia appears in window 
and sees them.) 

Lobelia. Laws o' mussy ! 

(Alan and Angie rtm off r.) 

Seth. Hello, Lobelia ; where'd you come from ? 
Lobelia. Jest down t' de sto'. {She has a few packages.) 

Gvvine home now, purt soon. Say, Mass' Seff, yo* 

gwine let 'm hab 'er? 
Seth. Who — {nodding off r. ) him ? 
Lobelia. Yassah. Yo' gwine let 'im take Miss Angie 'way 

frum yuh ? 
Seth. Not yet a while, Lobelia. We can't spare her for a 

78 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



long time yet, but some time — well, I have found out 
that he's a fine fellow, after all — from a good family, 
well off, and — as Angle seems to love him, and he 
seems to love her, and — well, .what you going to do ? 

Lobelia. Oh, dis lub ! Ain' dat jes' de way it goes? 
An' yo'. Mass' Seff, what 'bout yo' ? Ain' you gwine 
hab no lub — yo' 'n' Miss Helyun ? 

Seth. Oh, Lobelia, why, of course we are, all the love in 
the world. That'll come out all right, don't you worry. 
We may have to wait a while, but it will be worth 
waiting for. There, now, you trot along home, or we 
won't have any dinner. 

Lobelia. Trot? Laws o' mussy, wha' yo' take me fo' ; 
t'ink I'se gwine trot? He! he! Guess mah trott'n' 
days done gone by. He ! he ! Laws o' mussy ! 
Trot! 

(She disappears to L. Seth stands looking out of window 
after her, laughifig ; after a pause turns y sees Isabel, 
who enters L.) 

Seth. Miss Underwood I Here ! — you ? 

Isabel. Yes. I told you I should be here, and that I 
should have something to say, and something to give 
you. What I have to say, Mr. Barrett, is this — I want 
you to forgive me for anything I have said, anything 
that I may have seemed to do, or to be about to do, to 
injure you. I am sorry. I am going away — to-day — 
back to New York — and you will never see me nor hear 
from me again. And what I have to give you is this 
— these. (^O pens hand-bag, takes out packet of letters, 
and offers them to him.) Take them— they are yours. 

Seth. I don't understand. Only yesterday 

Isabel. I know. Only yesterday — a few days ago — I was 
a different woman. Since then — well, something has 
come over me. I have had my eyes opened. Another 
woman has appealed to me — her tenderness, her in- 
nocence, her sorrow, and Oh, I don't suppose 

you can understand — you won't believe me, perhaps, 
but it's true — it's true — and I mean to prove to you 
that I am sincere 

{He looks at her, doubtfully, not inclined wholly to believe 
in her. She stands r. c, hec. She is about to open 

79 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



hand-bag, when Dan rufis in r., excited, with one hand 
behind him. He pauses, dismayed, whefi he sees 
Isabel.) 

Seth. Well, sir, what do you want? 
Dan. N-nothing. I just — I was just 



[He shows an inclinatioji to retreat, but Seth detains him, 
noticing what is in hand behind his back.) 

Seth. Wait a minute. You have something to tell me. 
What is this ? 

( Takes hold of his arm and reveals the hidden hand, which 
holds bunch of letters.') 

Dan. Why, that's — that's them letters, Mr. Barrett. You 

see, I — I thought 

Seth. Letters ? ^ What letters ? Let's see. 

(Dan gives him the letters, which he glances at, puzzled. 
Isabel also is greatly surprised and i?iterested. Seth 
unties letters, looks them over quickly, amazed.) 

Dan. You see, she — she said she could 

Seth {handifig letters to Isabel, who takes them with be- 
wilder me7it). I believe these belong to you. 

Isabel {looking at letters). Why, these are — these are 
not 

Seth. And now, sir, what have you to say for yourself? 
Where did you get those letters ? 

Dan. Why, I — I reached in the window and took 'em, 
when she said she could use 'em to hurt you, and I — I 
meant it all right, Mr. Barrett. I wanted to help you 
and get the best of her, and I thought 

Seth. But these letters are not the ones I've been looking 

for, the ones that I must have. If the others 

{Struck by a sudden suspicion, looking «/ Isabel.) Ah 
— you 

Isabel {taking other packet of letters from bag and hand- 
ing them to him). Perhaps these 

Seth ( looking at letters, finding the one most important letter, 
taking it fro7n envelope). Ah — I see. You did take 
them. And this one — I suppose you have learned its 
contents. I might have known. 
80 



TEE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Isabel. No. You wrong me. I didn't even know that I 
had those letters in uiy possession. Even had I done 
so, 1 would not have used them against you. 

Seth. Ho ! A likely story. You didn't know 

Isabel. No. I thought they were the others — the letters I 
had when I came here — the ones you wrote to me, long 
ago. 

Seth. Then how 

Dan. That's so, Mr. Barrett. That's the truth. You 
see, I changed 'em. I took the others, so she couldn't 
use 'em against you, and grabbed up some others from 
the desk and put 'em in their place, so she wouldn't 
miss 'em — then I went and hid her bunch under the 
steps. I meant all right, Mr. Barrett, honest I did. I 
wanted to help you. 

Seth (^unable to hide his amusement). H'm — well, I guess 
you've helped me, all right. Now you'd better skedad- 
dle. I'll attend to your case later. 

(Dan looks relieved, fmir?nurs, ^^ Honest I didy^ etc.; 
exit R.) 

Isabel. Well ! 

Seth. Some kid, isn't he ? 

Isabel. I should say so. If you had a few more cham- 
pions like him, I guess But now I hope you be- 
lieve me, and I want you to take these letters. 

(^Offers him the original packet.^ 

Seth. Thank you. They are yours. I don't want them. 

Isabel {trying to 7nake him take them). But I want you to 
take them — ^just to show that you believe I am sin- 
cere {He still refuses them, turning up to desk, 

looking at other letters ; she tmties her letters and one 
by one tears them into small bits, throwing pieces into 
waste-basket.) There, they are gone. As for those 
others — you must believe me : I never looked at them 
— they never were out of my possession. Oh, I wish I 
could prove it. I want you to believe it — you shall ! 

{Enter Angie, l., followed by Alan. She looks off to r., 

in trepidation.) 

8i 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



Angie. Oh, Seth, here comes Mr. Coiiani, and I'm afraid 

Helen (^Sees Isabel, pauses. ) 

Alan. Angie ! 

Seth. What is it ? What about Helen ? 

Angie. Why, you see, she — we 

Alan. Yes, Mr. Barrett, we 

(Isabel has gone l. ; exits just as David enters r.) 

David. Oh, you're here, are you, Barrett ? Glad of it. I 
hear my daughter was seen coming in this direction a 
few minutes ago. Don't you think you'd better pro- 
duce her ? 

{^He is R. c. ; Seth, c. ; Angie atid Alan, l.) 

Seth. Your daughter is not here, Mr. Conant. I haven't 

seen her to-day. 
David. A likely story. She was seen coming in here, not 

ten minutes ago 

{He crosses to h., as if to go out there y but is stopped by 
Alan.) 

Alan. Just one minute, please. 

David {pushi?ig him aside'). Stand aside ! What have 
you got to say about it ? 

Angie {stepping up to him, ifidignantly). Don't you talk to 
him like that ! He's my friend, and we — we're en- 
gaged, and 

David. Huh ! 

{Disdainifig them, he is about to force his way out l., when 
he is met by Isabel, leading Helen, a?id falls back.) 

Isabel. Here is your daughter, Mr. Conant, ready to 
claim your promise. 

David. Promise ! I didn't make any promise. She'd 
better come with me 

Helen. No, father, not unless — unless you give your con- 
sent 

Seth {going to her). Helen, what does this mean ? Why 
are you here ? You said you would be patient, and 
wait. 

Isabel. There is nothing to wait for, Mr. Barrett. Mr. 
Conant consents to give you his daughter. He realizes 
82 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



that her happiness lies with you, that he has made a 
mistake, and he wishes to atone. {Turjts to David, 
speaking with deep meaning.) Isn't that the case, 
Mr. Conant? 

David {somewhat reluctantly, but realizing that he is 
cornered). Oh, well, I — I suppose if she's so set on 
having him, and he wants her, and — and they're bound 

to have each other (7<?Seth. ) But I want you 

to understand that I'm doing it of my own free will, 
and that I still intend to beat you out in that election, 
if I can do it — and I can ! — but I'm not going to have 
folks saying I don't care for my daughter, and that I 
stand in the way of her happiness, because of politics. 

Helen {going to him, throwing her arms about his neck). 
Oh, father ! Father, you make me so happy ! 

{He releases her, but not ivithout a show of affection. ) 

Seth. Thank you, 'squire; and I don't think you will 
regret it. After all, if — if I should beat you — and I 
mean to do it, you know, if I can — and I think I can ! 
— {this ivith a tivinkle of amusement) why, it'll be all 

in the family You may not be a district attorney, 

but — you'll have one for a son-in-law. 

David {jwt inclitied to accept the argument^ but still with 
a manfier suggesting that he yields good-7iaturedly.) 
H'm ! Maybe I will, and — maybe I won't ! I reckon a 
few of the voters will have something to say about that. 

{He has gone to r. ; /low, without another word and with- 
out looking at a?iy of the others, exits quickly r., as if 
anxious to avoid further discussion. Isabel walks to 
R. c, about to follow him. Seth is c, with Helen 
by him ; Alan atid k.'^QW., l. c.) 

Isabel. And now — will you say good-bye to me? 
Seth. Why, yes, of course — and good luck to you. 

{He offers her his hand, which, after an ins tan fs hesitation, 
and some emotion, she takes. Then, again about to 
go, she glances tenderly at Helen, saying, " Good- 
bye.'' Helen goes to her, kisses her.) 

Isabel. Thank — you ! 

83 



THE VILLAGE LAWYER 



( Without another ivord, but showing that she is deeply 
moved by Helen's caress^ she slowly exits k. Hllen 
looks after her, with an expression that sJiows so77ie- 
thing akin to tenderness. Seth also seems touched, 
and Ah AN and Angie stand close together, l., looking 
on with syjnpathetic interest. Helen goes to Seth.) 

Helen. Oh, Seth, we — we feel kindly toward her — and 

toward my father — and — and everybody — don't we? 
Seth. Yes, dear — yes \ toward all the world ! 

(Zr<? takes her in his arms ; she buries her face ofi his 
shoulder and he kisses her oti forehead. Alan puts 
his arm about Angie, kisses her. Sam and Mrs. D. 
appear in window, uniioticed, greatly surprised, but 
beaming joyftilly ; he attempts to kiss her, she cuffs 
hifn playfully, he persists afid she lets him get the kiss. 
Lobelia appears k., sees Helen in Seth's arms, raises 
her hands, theti clasps them together rapturously,) 

Lobelia. Laws o' mussy ! 



CURTAIN 



Successful Rural Plays 

A Strong List From Which to Select Your 
Next Play 

FARM FOLKS. A Rural Play in Four Acts, by Arthur 
Lewis Tubes. For five male and six female characters. Time 
of playing, two hours and a half. One simple exterior, two 
easy interior scenes. Costumes, modern. Flora Goodwin, a 
farmer's daughter, is engaged to Philip Burleigh, a young New 
Yorker. Philip's mother wants him to marry a society woman, 
and by falsehoods makes Flora believe Philip does not love her. 
Dave Weston, who wants Flora himself, helps the deception by 
intercepting a letter from Philip to Flora. She agrees to marry 
Dave, but on the eve of their marriage Dave confesses, Philip 
learns the truth, and he and Flora are reunited. It is a simple 
plot, but full of speeches and situations that sway an audience 
alternately to tears and to laughter. Price, 25 cents. 

HOME TIES. A Rural Play in Four Acts, by Arthur 
Lewis Tubes. Characters, four male, five female. Plays two 
hours and a half. Scene, a simple interior — same for all four 
acts. Costumes, modern. One of the strongest plays Mr. Tubbs 
has written. Martin Winn's wife left him when his daughter 
Ruth was a baby. Harold Vincent, the nephew and adopted son 
of the man who has wronged Martin, makes love to Ruth Winn. 
She is also loved by Len Everett, a prosperous young farmer. 
When Martin discovers who Harold is, he orders him to leave 
Ruth. Harold, who does not love sincerely, yields. Ruth dis- 
covers she loves Len, but thinks she has lost him also. Then 
he comes back, and Ruth finds her happiness. Price 25 cents. 

THE OLD NEW HAMPSHIRE HOME. A New 

England Drama in Three Acts, by Frank Dumont. For seven 
males and four females. Time, two hours and a half. Costumes, 
modern. A play with a strong heart interest and pathos, yet rich 
in humor. Easy to act and very effective. A rural drama of 
the "Old Homstead" and "Way Down East" type. Two ex- 
terior scenes, one interior, all easy to set. Full of strong sit- 
uations and delightfully humorous passages. The kind of a play 
everybody understands and likes. Price, 25 cents. 

THE OLD DAIRY HOMESTEAD. A Rural Comedy 
in Three Acts, by Frank Dumont. For five males and four 
females. Time, two hours. Rural costumes. Scenes rural ex- 
terior and interior. An adventurer obtains a large sum of money 
from a farm house through the intimidation of the farmer's 
niece, whose husband he claims to be. Her escapes from the 
wiles of the villain and his female accomplice are both starting 
and novel. Price, 15 cents. 

A WHITE MOUNTAIN BOY. A Strong Melodrama in 
Five Acts, by Charles Townsend. For seven males and four 
females, and three supers. Time, two hours and twenty minutes. 
One exterior, three interiors. Costumes easy. The hero, a 
country lad, twice saves the life of a banker's daughter, which 
results in their betrothal. A scoundrelly clerk has the banker 
in his power, but the White Mountain boy finds a way to check- 
mate his schemes, saves the banker, and wins the girl. Price 
15 cents. 



Successful Plays for All Girls 

In Selecting Your Next Play Do Not Overlook This List 

YOUNG DOCTOR DEVINE. A Farce in Two Acts, 
by Mrs. E. J. H. Goodfellow. One of the most popular 
plays for girls. For nine female characters. Time in 
playing, thirty minutes. Scenery, ordinary interior. Mod- 
ern costumes. Girls in a boarding-school, learning that a 
young doctor is coming to vaccinate all the pupils, eagerly con- 
sult each other as to the manner of fascinating the physician. 
When the doctor appears upon the scene the pupils discover that 
the physician is a female practitioner. Price, 15 cents. 

SISTER MASONS. A Burlesque in One Act, by Frank 
DuMONT. For eleven females. Time, thirty minutes. Costumes, 
fantastic gowns, or dominoes. Scene, interior. A grand expose 
of Masonry. Some women profess to learn the secrets of a 
Masonic lodge by hearing their husbands talk in their sleep, 
and they institute a similar organization. Price, 15 cents. 

A COMMANDING POSITION. A Farcical Enter- 
tainment, by Amelia Sanford. For seven female char- 
acters and ten or more other ladies and children. Time, one 
hour. Costumes, modern. Scenes, easy interiors and one street 
scene. Marian Young gets tired living with her aunt, Miss 
Skinflint. She decides to "attain a commanding position." 
Marian tries hospital nursing, college settlement work and 
school teaching, but decides to go back to housework. Price, 15 
cents. 

HOW A WOMAN KEEPS A SECRET. A Comedy 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. For ten female characters. 
Time, half an hour. Scene, an easy interior. Costumes, modern. 
Mabel Sweetly has just become engaged to Harold, but it's "the 
deepest kind of a secret." Before announcing it they mxust win 
the approval of Harold's uncle, now in Europe, or lose a possible 
ten thousand a year. At a tea Mabel meets her dearest friend. 
Maude sees Mabel has a secret, she coaxes and Mabel tells her. 
But Maude lets out the secret in a few minutes to another 
friend and so the secret travels. Price, 15 cents. 

THE OXFORD AFFAIR. A Comedy in Three Acts, 
by Josephine H. Cobb and Jennie E. Paine. For eight female 
characters. Plays one hour and three-quarters. Scenes, inter- 
iors at a seaside hotel. Costumes, modern. The action of the 
play is located at a summer resort. Alice Graham, in order to 
chaperon herself, poses as a widow, and Miss Oxford first claims 
her as a sister-in-law, then denounces her. The onerous duties 
of Miss Oxford, who attempts to serve as chaperon to Miss 
Howe and Miss Ashton in the face of many obstacles, furnisli 
an evening of rare enjoyment. Price 15 cents. 



Unusually Good Entertainments 

Read One or More of These Before Deciding on 
Your Next Program 

A SURPRISE PARTY AT BRINKLEY'S. An En- 
tertainment in One Scene, by Ward Macauley. Seven male and 
seven female characters. Interior scene, or may be given with- 
out scenery. Costumes, modern. Time, one hour. By the 
author of the popular successes, "Graduation Day at Wood Hill 
School," "Back to the Country Store," etc. The villagers have 
jilanncd a birthday surprise party for Mary Brinkley, recently 
graduated from college. They all join in jolly games, songs, 
conundrums, etc., and Mary becomes engaged, which surprises 
the surprisers. The entertainment is a sure success. Price, 15 centSv 

JONES VS. JINKS. A Mock Trial in One Act, by 
Edward Mumford. Fifteen male and six female characters, with 
supernumeraries if desired. May be played all male. Many of the 
parts (members of the jury, etc.) are small. Scene, a simple 
interior ; may be played without scenery. Costumes, modern. 
Time of playing, one hour. This mock trial has many novel 
features, unusual characters and quick action. Nearly every 
character has a funny entrance and laughable lines. There are 
many rich parts, and fast fun throughout. Price, 15 cents. 

THE SIGHT-SEEING CAR. A Comedy Sketch in One 
Act, by Ernest M. Gould. For seven males, two females, or 
may be all male. Parts may be doubled, with quick changes, so 
that four persons may play the sketch. Time, forty-five minutes. 
Simple street scene. Costumes, modern. The superintendent 
of a sight-seeing automobile engages two men to run the 
machine. A Jew, a farmer, a fat lady and other humorous 
characters give them all kinds of trouble. This is a regular gat- 
ling-gun stream of rollicking repartee. Price, 15 cents. 

THE CASE OF SMYTHE VS. SMITH. An Original 
Mock Trial in One Act, by Frank Dumont. Eighteen males 
and two females, or may be all male. Plays about one hour. 
Scene, a county courtroom ; requires no scenery ; may be played 
in an ordinary hall. Costumes, modern. This entertainment is 
nearly perfect of its kind, and a sure success. It can be easily 
produced in any place or on any occasion, and provides almost 
any number of good parts. Price, 15 cents. 

THE OLD MAIDS' ASSOCIATION. A Farcical Enter- 
tainment in One Act, by Louise Latham Wilson. For thirteen 
females and one male. The male part may be played by a 
female, and the number of characters increased to twenty or 
more. Time, forty minutes. The play requires neither scenery 
nor properties, and very little in the way of costumes. Can 
easily be prepared in one or two rehearsals. Price, 25 cents, 

BARGAIN DAY AT BLOOMSTEIN'S. A Farcical 

Entertainment in One Act, by Edward Mumford. For five males 
and ten females, with supers. Interior scene. Costumes, mod- 
ern. Time, thirty minutes. The characters and the situations 
which arise from their endeavors to buy and sell make rapid-fire 
fun from start to finish. Price, 15 cents. 



Unusually Good Entertainments 

Read One or More of These Before Deciding on 
Your Next Program 

GRADUATION DAY AT WOOD HILIi SCHOOL. 

An Entertainment in Two Acts, by Ward Macauley. For six 
males and four females, with several minor parts. Time of 
playing, two hours. Modern costumes. Simple interior scenes ; 
may be presented in a hall without scenery. The unusual com- 
bination of a real "entertainment," including music, recitations, 
etc., with an interesting love story. The graduation exercises 
include short speeches, recitations, songs, funny interruptions, 
and a comical speech by a country school trustee. Price, 15 
cents. 

EXAMINATION DAY AT WOOD HILL SCHOOL. 

An Entertainment in One Act, by Ward Macauley. Eight male 
and six female characters, with minor parts. Plays one hour. 
Scene, an easy interior, or may be given without scenery. Cos- 
tumes, modern. Miss Marks, the teacher, refuses to marry a 
trustee, who threatens to discharge her. The examination in- 
cludes recitations and songs, and brings out many funny answers 
to questions. At the close Robert Coleman, an old lover, claims 
the teacher. Very easy and very effective. Price, 15 cents. 

BACK TO THE COUNTRY STORE. A Rural Enter- 
tainment in Three Acts, by Ward Macauley. For four male 
and five female characters, with some svipers. Time, two hours. 
Two scenes, both easy interiors. Can be played effectively with- 
out scenery. Costumes, modern. All the principal parts are 
sure hits. Quigley Higginbotham, known as "Quig," a clerk in 
a country store, aspires to be a great avithor or singer and 
decides to try his fortunes in New York. The last scene is in 
Quig's home. He returns a failure but is offered a partnership 
in the country store. He pops the question in the midst of a 
surprise party given in his honor. Easy to do and very funny. 
Price, 15 cents. 

THE DISTRICT CONVENTION. A Farcical Sketch 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. For eleven males and one 
female, or twelve males. Any number of other parts or super- 
numeraries may be added. Plays forty-five minutes. No special 
scenery is required, and the costumes and properties are all 
easy. The play shows an uproarious political nominating con- 
vention. The climax comes when a woman's rights cham- 
pion, captures the convention. There is a great chance to bur- 
lesque modern politics and to work in local gags. Every 
part will make a hit. Price, 15 cents. 

SI SLOCUM'S COUNTRY STORE. An Entertainment 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. Eleven male and five female 
characters with supernumeraries. Several parts may be doubled. 
Plays one hour. Interior scene, or may be played without set 
scenery. Costumes, modern. The rehearsal for an entertain- 
ment in the village church gives plenty of opportunity for 
specialty work. A very jolly entertainment of the sort adapted 
to almost any place or occasion. Price, 15 cents. 




Practical Elocution 

By J. W. Shobmakkk, A» K 

300 pages 

Qoth, Leather Back, $1^5 

This work is the outgrowth oi 
actual class-room experience, and 
is a practical, common-sense treat- 
ment of the whole subject. It is 
clear and concise, yet comprehen- 
sive, and is absolutely free from 
the entangling technicalities that arc so frequently 
found in books of this class. 

Conversation, which is the basis of all true Elocu- 
tion, is regarded as embracing all the germs d 
speech and action. Prominent attention is therefoce 
given to the cultivation of this the most common 
form of human expression. 

General principles and practical processes are pre- 
sented for the cultivation of strength, purity, and 
flexibility of Voice, for the improvement of distinct- 
ness and correctness in Articulation, and for the 
development of Soul power in delivery. 

The work includes a systematic treatment of Ges- 
ture in its several departments of position, facial 
expression, and bodily movement, a brief system of 
Gymnastics bearing upon vocal development and 
grace of movement, and also a chapter on MedK>d8 
of Instruction, for teachersc 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, n^m m^ 
mipt of price. 

The Penn Publishing Company 

226 5. 11th 5treet^ Philadelphia 



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discussion, in society, in business. 

It is an invaluable asset to any man or woman. It can often 
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In learning to express thought, we learn to command 
thought itself, and thought is power. You can have this 
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of himself. 

The power of expression leads to: 

The ability to think "on your feet" 

Successful public speaking 

Effective recitals 

The mastery over other minds 

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Are these things worth while? 

They are all successfully taught at The National School of 
Elocution and Oratory, which during many years has de- 
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A catalogue giving full information as to how any of these 
accomplishments may be attained will be sent free on request. 

THE NATIONAL SCHOOL OF 
ELOCUTION AND ORATORY 

Parkway Building Philadelphia 



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